E'^tlMd^ 


Miss  NOBODY  OF  NOWHERE 


a  Nobel 


BY 


ARCHIBALD  CLAVERING  GUNTER 

AUTHOR  OF 

"MR.    POTTER   OF   TEXAS,"      "THAT   FRENCHMAN,"    "  MK. 

BARNES  OF  NEW  YORK,"    "  SMALL  BOYS  IN  BIG  BOOTS," 

"A       FLORIDA       ENCHANTMENT,"         "MISS 

DIVIDENDS,"     "  BARON  MONTEZ     OF 

PANAMA  AND  PARIS,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

HURST  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1888, 

by 
A.  C.    GUNTER. 

AH  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I. 

A  COLLEGE   COWBOY. 

MM 

CHAPTER         I. — The  Last   Kick  of  the  Harvard- 
Yale  Foot-ball  Match,  7 
«             II.— Pete,  the  Cowboy,   •                 -21 
"            III.— The  Little  Girl  from  England,    -  33 
«            IV.— The    Lone    Ranch    by  the    San 

Francisco,           •  44 

«              V.— The  Box  Cafion  of  the  Gila,         -  56 

*  VL — Brick  Garvey's  Inquest,    •        •  66 

BOOK  IL 

A   DENVER   BELLE. 

CHAPTER  VII. — Diary  of  a  Western  Debutante,  84 
u  VIII.— Mrs.  Marvin,  of  New  York,  -  88 
«  IX.— The  "  Baby "  Mine,  ..95 

**  X. — A  Bursted  Speculation,  -  107 

"  XI. — An  Evening  on  Fifth  Avenue.         115 

*  XII. — Madame   Lamere's  Academy  for 

Young  Ladies,      -        -  123 

*  XIII. — An  American  Lord,     •  139 

*  XIV.— Pete  Enters  Society,  -      153 
"           XV.— Little  Gussie's  Razzle-dacete,  -  i€j 


iV  CONTENTS. 

BOOK  III. 

MISS  SOMEBODY    OF    SOMEWHERE. 

PAGE 

CHAPTER       XVI. — Lord  Avonmere's  Ghost,         -  181 
u  XVII.—"  Darn  me  if  it  ain't  Pete  ! "        192 

*  XVIII. — An  Episode  of  the  Patriarchs,     203 

*  XIX. — The  Bogus  Bassington,         -       215 
•*  XX.—"  Dear  Gal — do  Something  for 

her  Some  Day,"    -  227 

u             XXI.— She  shall  Remember  !           -  239 

«            XXII.—"  Not  till  I  have  a  Name  !  "  -  247 

"           XXIII. — Mrs.  Warburton's  Circus,      -  260 

"           XXIV. — An  International  Bride,  •  276 

*  XXV.— Happy  Cowboy  !•        -        -  288 


MISS  NOBODY  OF  NOWHERE. 

BOOK  I. 
A  COLLEGE  COWBOY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    LAST    KICK     OP     THE    HARVARD-YALE     FOOT-BALL 
MATCH. 

THE  game  is  drawing  to  a  close  ! 

It  is  the  contest  of  the  season,  the  foot-ball  match 
between  Yale  and  Harvard. 

The  shivering  spectators  are  trying  to  keep  themselves 
warm  with  enthusiasm.  There  are  only  some  seven  hun- 
dred of  them,  for  the  day  is  a  miserable  one,  and  every 
undergraduate  of  Harvard  who  looks  on  this  game  and 
sports  the  crimson  does  so  despite  the  frowns  of  his  fac- 
ulty ;  and  every  student  from  Yale  who  has  come  to 
Boston  to  wear  his  cherished  blue  and  cry  his  college 
cry  has  hanging  over  his  head  the  promise  of  suspen- 
sion from  the  authorities  of  the  old  Connecticut  seat  of 
learning. 

Besides,  in  1878,  college  foot-ball  had  not  reached  the 
popularity  that  has  come  to  it  with  advancing  years. 
The  dons  of  the  universities  frowned  upon  the  sport,  the 
public  gazed  on  it  with  partial  indifference  ;  and  there 
were  no  crowded  ovals  and  but  little  of  the  attendant 
beauty  and  fashion  that  give  to  great  college  games  the 
brilliancy  and  excitement  that  have  come  upon  them  in 
the  last  few  yean. 


S  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

But  every  man-jack  of  these  foot-ball  pioneers, 
tators  or  players,  are  devotees  of  the  sport  and  their 
colleges. 

They  have  come  from  Harvard  to  the  Boston  base« 
ball  grounds  in  omnibuses,  street-cars,  and  private  turn- 
outs, singing  their  time-worn  ditties,  in  spite  of  their  fac- 
ulty, who  have  prevented  their  playing  this  match  on 
their  own  college  field,  because  one  of  their  team  is  sus- 
pended and  cannot  step  on  university  soil. 

They  have  come  from  Yale  by  train,  singing  that  old- 
time  glee  with  which  the  Sophs  used  to  taunt  the  Freshes 
into  the  annual  class  foot-ball  scrimmages  that  called  the 
beauties  of  New  Haven  to  the  State  House  steps,  Chapel 
Street,  and  the  hotel  balcony  to  see  the  great  class  con- 
tests that  have  now  degenerated  into  class  rushes. 

This  ditty  half  the  undergraduates  now  suppose  ap- 
plies to  their  professors,  and  consequently  sing  this  year 
with  additional  fervor : 

*'  Let  them  come  on,  the  base-born  crew, 

Each  soil-stained  churl,  alack  ! 
What  gain  they  but  a  splitten  skull, 
A  sod  for  their  base  back  !  " 

Only  the  distance  from  New  Haven  to  the  Boston 
base-ball  grounds  being  much  greater  than  the  distance 
from  Cambridge  to  that  point,  the  Harvard  partisans 
greatly  exceed  in  numbers  the  Yale  delegation.  So  it  is 
with  the  girls,  who,  being  Boston  ones,  wear  crimson  in 
some  aggressive  form  and  shout  Harvard  Rahs  ! — all 
save  one,  a  little  maiden  of  about  twelve,  who  has  a  blue 
ribbon  in  her  hat,  and  enthusiastically  swings  a  blue 
parasol  over  her  pretty  head  whenever  Yale  makes  a  tell- 
ing play. 

All  through  the  long  game  that  is  even  now  drawing  to 
a  close  she  has  kept  her  eyes  on  one  of  the  blue  half- 
backs ;  in  every  scrimmage  and  every  rush  her  gaze  has 
followed  him,  as  if  upon  his  prowess  alone  depended  the 
fate  of  the  contest. 

Were  she  older,  one  might  suppose  her  his  sweetheart, 
for  her  blue  eyes  have  love  in  them  of  some  kind,  and 
the  figure  she  is  gazing  on  might  well  inspire  admiration, 
even  passion ;  for  its  physical  development  is  superb 
both  as  regards  its  graceful  activity  and  direct  strength, 


MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  p 

and  h  i*  tunnounted  by  a  head  and  face  which  arc  not 
only  beautiful  but  intellectual.  While  playing,  though 
his  great  muscles  work  his  lithe  limbs  like  those  of  an 
animated  giant,  his  bright  eyes  also  flash  with  excited 
idea — he  fights  his  college  battle  not  alone  with  his  body 
but  with  his  head  ;  and  head  is  the  only  thing  that  will 
settle  this  contest  now,  for  both  sides  have  tried  brute 
strength  time  and  again  without  avail. 

The  little  lady's  relationship  to  the  Yale  half-back  is 
not  long  undetermined.  Whenever  Harvard  makes  a 
telling  play  and  Cambridge  cries  fill  the  air,  and  the 
crimson  color  is  flaunted  on  high,  she  gives  a  Yale  yell 
with  all  the  power  of  youthful  lungs,  and  waving  her 
blue  parasol  in  the  faces  of  the  lovers  of  magenta,  shouts 
out :  "  Just  you  wait  and  see  my  brother  kick  !  " 

This  aggressiveness  angers  a  Harvard  girl,  who  whis- 
pers to  her  next  neighbor :  "  Who  is  that  little  blue 
fiend?" 

"  Fiend! "  answers  the  other.  "  She's  worse,  she's  a 
TRAITOR  !  She's  Bessie  Everett,  and  lives  on  Beacon 
Street." 

"  A  Boston  girl  a  YALE  girl  ?  "  whispers  the  first,  over- 
come by  this  awful  thought. 

"  Yes,  and  her  brother's  that  nasty  Yale  creature  who 
scrimmages  so  fearfully — the  one  who's  just  downed 
Blanchard.  Ain't  he  horrid  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  he's  downed  another  one ! "  cries  Bessie, 
whose  pretty  ears  have  caught  this  conversation.  "  And 
he'll  down  some  more— Y  !  A  !  L  !  E  !— YALE  ! " 

But  here  her  voice  is  drowned  by  the  tumult  of  the 
grand  stand.  Aided  by  the  wind  that  is  blowing  with 
them,  the  blues  have  got  the  ball  well  into  the  crimson 
territory,  and  are  now  fighting  like  giants  for  goal  or 
touch-down,  while  their  opponents  are  struggling  with 
equal  will  and  vigor  to  get  the  ball  out  of  bounds  and  so 
gain  time,  for  in  two  short  minutes  the  second  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  will  have  passed  and  the  game  will 
be  over. 

So  far  neither  collage  has  gained  a  point,  though  by  a 
wedge  rush  Yale  had  made  a  touch-down  in  the  first  half, 
which  had  not  been  allowed,  as  it  had  been  gained  twenty 
seconds  or  so  after  the  forty-five  minutes  for  play  had 
expired. 


H«  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

That  half  the  wind  had  been  against  them.  This 
half  it  is  in  their  favor ;  and  now,  thinking  themselves 
robbed  by  the  umpire's  watch,  and  remembering  that 
the  blue  this  year  has  been  beaten  both  at  base-ball  and 
regatta  by  the  crimson,  they  are  desperately  fighting  to 
make  the  slight  advantage  they  have  productive  of  a  foot- 
ball victory ; — with  only  two  short  minutes  in  which  to 
do  it. 

But  now  a  mighty  though  discordant  noise  comes  from 
the  upholders  of  the  blue. 

Some  cry  :  **  Kick  it !  kick  it  quick  I " 

Others  yell :  "  Run,  Everett,  RUN  !  "  for  the  little  girl's 
brother  has  caught  the  ball  from  a  fair  kick  by  one  of 
the  Harvard  backs. 

This,  though  apparently  an  accident,  is  really  the  result 
of  thought  quick  as  instinct. 

He  had  noted  the  leather  sphere  going  to  one  of  thfe 
Harvard  half-backs,  celebrated  for  his  long  kicks,  and 
therefore  judged  he  would  propel  the  ball  with  his  foot ; 
not  run  with  it,  and  attempt  to  dodge  the  rushers  waiting 
to  tackle  and  down  him.  Consequently  Everett  had 
sprung  for  the  territory  where  he  thought  a  good  drop 
kick  would  plant  the  ball,  and  guessing  correctly,  has 
made  a  fair  catch  of  the  sphere  and  so  holds  it,  the  Har- 
vard goal-posts  right  in  front  of  him,  but  many  a  long 
yard  away. 

He  doesn't  wait  for  the  advice  of  the  grand  stand 
whether  he  shall  kick  the  ball  or  run  with  it.  To  win 
this  game  he  knows  he  must  do  both,  for  no  human 
being  can  drive  that  ball  over  the  Harvard  goal  at  the 
distance  he  is  from  it. 

As  the  crowd  is  yelling  he  is  running  swiftly  forward, 
the  crimson  rushers  and  half-backs  hurrying  to  tackle 
and  down  him. 

Can  he  get  near  enough  and  kick  sure  enough  and 
strong  enough  to  send  the  sphere  between  those  two  dis- 
tant goal-posts  and  over  their  cross-bar  before  he  is  over- 
whelmed ? 

It  looks  impossible  \ 

On  one  side  comes  Blanchard,  the  Harvard  half-back, 
to  seize  and  throw  him  ;  on  the  other,  Perry,  the  rusher, 
to  tackle  him  round  body  or  limb — low  if  he  can,  high 
if  he  must,  but  savage  any  way.  Behind  these,  other^ 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  II 

of  the  crimson  are  hurrying  ;  while  Wetherby,  one  of  the 
Harvard  backs  (they  had  three  in  those  days),  is  almost 
in  front  of  him,  well  down  by  the  goal,  but  charging  like 
a  locomotive  ;  for  they  mean  to  roll  Phil  Everett  in  the 
mud  and  pile  half  a  dozen  rushers  on  top  of  him,  to  slug 
him,  crush  the  wind  out  of  his  body,  and  leave  him  bat- 
tered and  bruised,  weak  and  windless,  rather  than  he 
shall  get  a  fair  kick  at  Harvard  goal  on  this  last  minute 
of  a  game  that  may  be  drawn. 

There  is  only  one  Yale  rusher  to  aid  him.  Lamb  is 
on  his  right  and  will  tackle  Blanchard.  Noting  this, 
Everett  runs  more  to  the  right,  and  so  farther  from 
Perry,  and  dodging  him,  speeds  on  with  the  Harvard 
rusher  at  his  heels. 

He  has  gained  ten  yards  ;  a  herculean  kick  may  now 
reach  goal.  Will  he  have  time  to  make  it  ? 

Even  now  he  feels  the  breath  of  the  Harvard  rusher 
on  the  back  of  his  neck  and  dare  not  stay,  so  speeds  on. 

But  suddenly  he  hears  a  Yale  yell — the  Mercury  of 
their  rush  line  has  come  up  with  winged  feet  at  a  sprint- 
ing pace,  and  springing  on  Perry,  has  thrown  an  arm 
around  h:.s  neck  ;  then  jumping  back,  has  thus  jerked  the 
crimson  rusher  to  the  earth  with  his  head  half  wrung  off 
his  body. 

Then  Everett  knows  he  has  just  time  to  kick  before 
Wetherby,  the  Harvard  back,  will  be  upon  him. 

He  drops  the  ball,  and  kicking  rather  high  to  give  the 
favoring  wind  time  to  do  its  work,  and  also  to  avoid  any 
chance  of  catch  from  Wetherby,  smites  the  ball  with  his 
foot,  giving  it  every  pound  of  weight  and  ounce  of  power 
in  his  mighty  body. 

The  sphere  flies  from  the  ground,  the  Harvard  back 
makes  a  wild  spring  for  it,  but  it  is  eight  inches  above 
his  grasp  and  sailing  over  his  head  as  it  gradually  rises 
in  the  air. 

Then  both  teams  and  spectators  gaze  upon  it,  and  there 
is  silence. 

The  ball  goes  straight  as  an  arrow  for  the  goal-posts, 
but  making  its  curve,  seems  to  falter  and  have  scarce 
strength  enough  to  reach,  the  distance  is  so  great ; 
then,  caught,  perhaps,  by  a  stronger  gust  of  wind,  it 
gains  new  power  and  shoots  over  the  cross-bar  and 
between  the  goal-posts,  while  up  to  Heaven  goes  a  Yald 


It  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

yell  that  might  wake  the  seven  sleepers,  and  the  air  be- 
comes azure  with  banners,  while  the  little  girl  waves  her 
blue  parasol  and  cries  :  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  just  to  wait 
and  see  my  big  brother  kick  !  " 

But  no  one  answered  her  taunts — the  Harvard  maidens 
are  crushed  lilies  now. 

The  ball  is  put  in  play  again,  but  before  any  effort  of 
the  crimsons  can  retrieve  their  fortunes,  time  is  called, 
and  Harvard  stands  beaten  by  a  single  goal. 

So  they  ^11  turn  to  leave  the  grounds,  little  Bessie 
Everett  humming  a  Yale  ditty  and  gazing  contemptu- 
ously at  the  crushed  young  ladies  who  wear  the  crim- 
son. 

She  has  not  made  half  a  dozen  steps  from  her  seat  on 
the  grand  stand  when  she  cries  out  suddenly  :  "  Why,  Mr. 
Van  Beekman,  have  you  come  to  take  me  to  my  brother  ? 
Wasn't  Phil's  kick  lovely  ? "  and  holds  out  her  little  hand 
to  a  Yale  undergraduate  who  is  pressing  toward  her  in 
the  crush. 

"Lovely?  It  was  real  agitating — I  actually  clapped 
my  hands ! "  cries  this  creature,  who  is  very  little,  and 
is  arrayed  most  strikingly  in  azure  shirt,  collar,  and  cuffs, 
with  a  blue  scarf  around  his  neck,  a  blue  flower  in  his 
buttonhole,  and  exquisite  blue  gloves  on  his  dainty  hands. 
Curiously  enough,  he  sports  a  single  eyeglass  and  knicker- 
bockers, for  in  the  year  1878  American  gentlemen  still 
thought  they  might  be  considered  gentlemen  without  af- 
fecting the  fads  of  English  costume  or  manner.  "  I'm 
so  excited  I  think  I  shall  go  in  for  athletics  myself  ! "  he 
babbles  on. 

"  Yes,  they  would  improve  you  AWFULLY  ! "  remarks 
Bessie,  with  the  frankness  of  childhood,  taking  a  sly  but 
scornful  glance  at  Van  Beekman's  diminutive  calves,  that 
are  ludicrously  exhibited  by  his  knickerbockers. 

"  Awh,  glad  you  agree  with  me.  And  what  do  you 
think  of  my  Yale  get-up  ?  My  tailor  was  excited  over 
it.  You  see  I'm  blue  all  over." 

"  It  would  be  simply  perfect  if  you  only  had  an  eye- 
glass to  match,"  cries  Bessie. 

"  An  eyeglass  to  match  ?  " 

"Yes,  a/5/^one." 

"  A  blue  eyeglass !  Oh  !  by  Jove,  that  is  a  fetching 
idea.  That  will  be  an  eye-opener.  I'll  order  one  for 


MISS  NOBODY  OF  NOWHERE.  I| 

the  Princeton  affair  next  week.  A  blue  eyeglass  J  By 
George,  you're  a  genius,  Miss  Bessie  ! "  he  ejaculates, 
producing  a  diminutive  pocket-book  and  jotting  down 
the  article  under  discussion. 

He  has  scarcely  time  to  finish  this  when  Miss  Everett, 
who  is  of  an  impetuous  disposition,  grabs  his  arm  and 
shouts,  for  the  hum  of  the  grand  stand  is  still  very  loud  : 
"  Why  don't  you  take  me  to  my  brother,  as  you  said  you 
would,  Mr.  Augustus  de  Punster  Van  Beekman  ?" 

A  minute  or  two  after  this  they  are  both  gazing  on  the 
Yale  half-back,  who,  having  got  into  citizen's  dress,  is 
nursing  a  very  black  eye,  for  the  slugging  and  scrim- 
maging, according  to  the  custom  of  that  day,  had  been 
something  awful. 

He  is  standing  up,  like  a  stag  at  bay,  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  Yale  undergraduates,  who  every  now  and  again 
make  frantic  rushes  at  him  and  embrace  and  squeeze 
him  as  if  they  loved  him— which  they  do,  for  Phil  Everett 
has  this  day  made  one  of  those  phenomenal  plays  that 
put  a  man's  name  high  up  in  college  annals,  and  are  told 
of,  around  the  campus,  by  students  long  after  their  hero 
has  passed  from  university  life,  till  they  become  as  col- 
lege household  words. 

Notwithstanding  the  boisterous  attentions  of  his  sur- 
rounders,  the  young  man  is  looking  very  proud  and 
happy,  for  the  captain  of  his  team,  another  giant  like 
himself,  has  just  given  him  an  awful  squeeze  and  whis- 
pered :  "  You've  done  a  great  thing  for  Yale  foot-ball  this 
day,  old  fellow  ! " 

And  so  he  has,  for  from  that  time  to  this,  when  the 
blue  has  met  the  crimson  or  the  black  and  orange,  and 
the  scrimmage  has  been  most  savage,  and  the  charging 
most  furious,  many  a  Yale  rusher  has  tackled  a  little 
harder,  and  many  a  Yale  back  has  kicked  a  little  longer 
as  the  memory  of  Everett's  winning  goal  has  come  into 
his  mind  to  fire  his  heart,  amid  the  cries  of  foot-ball  par- 
tisans and  dust  of  foot-ball  battle. 

For  Everett's  kick  was  the  first  of  those  extraordinary 
exhibitions  of  strength  and  skill  that,  followed  up  by 
"  Lamar's  run "  and  the  phenomenal  playing  of  Camp 
and  Moffat,  and  later  on,  Beecher  and  Bull,  aod  Ames 
and  Poe,  have  made  college  foot-ball  what  it  now  is, 
when  beauty,  wealth,  and  fashion  by  thousands  crowd 


•4  MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHBRE. 

college  fields  and  ovals  to  see  Yale,  Harvard,  and  Prince, 
ton  fight  like  students  and  demons  to  carry  the  crimson  of 
blue  or  black  and  orange  to  victory  and  glory. 

There  is  no  such  crowd  on  this  day  of  Everett's  kick, 
though  the  Yale  men  about  him  make  up  for  lack  of 
numbers  by  abundance  of  enthusiasm.  He  puts  them  off, 
however,  by  saying  :  "  Look  out,  fellows,  here's  a  lady." 

"  A  lady  !  "  they  cry,  all  giving  back. 

Then  one  suddenly  says,  rather  contemptuously : 
«  Why,  it's  a  child  !  " 

But  another  laughs :  "  By  George !  she  was  the  only 
Yale  girl  on  the  ground.  I  saw  her  wave  that  blue  para- 
sol every  time  we  downed  the  magenta." 

Then  one  of  the  team  suddenly  cries :  "  Why,  she's 
Phil's  sister  ! "  for  the  little  lady  has  visited  her  brother 
at  Yale  the  preceding  term,  and  has  been  petted  and 
made  much  of  by  most  of  the  athletic  set,  having  had 
the  supreme  honor  and  bliss  of  feeling  the  muscle  of  the 
stroke  of  the  Yale  boat,  among  the  crew  of  which  Everett 
pulled  the  bow  oar. 

So  the  crowd  make  way  for  her,  and  in  a  moment  she 
fs  in  her  brother's  arms,  kissing  him  and  telling  him  how 
proud  she  is  of  him,  and  how  she  has  cried  out  for  him 
and  taunted  the  Harvard  girls  with  him ;  and  that  she 
loves  him  and  is  sure  he  can  kick  further  than  any  man 
in  the  world. 

This  probably  makes  the  giant  happy,  for  he  loves  his 
little  sister  very  dearly,  and  there  is  a  smile  on  his  face  as 
he  kisses  her.  But  suddenly  the  look  becomes  a  troubled 
one  as  she  whispers  in  his  ear  :  "  If  mother  were  only  here 
for  me  to  tell  her  all  about  it." 

A  moment  after  his  face  grows  even  more  serious  as  she 
babbles  on:  "  Phil,  you  must  see  father  before  you  go  back 
to  Yale.  He's  awfully  angry  at  you  about  something." 

u  About  what  ?  "  asks  the  young  man,  uneasily. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  ;  but  he  got  &  letter  this  morn- 
ing— I  think  it  was  from  England,  because  the  butler  said 
it  was  foreign — and  whep  he  read  it  he  went  on  awful 
about  you  and  forbid  my  coming  to  see  you  play." 

"  So  you've  disobeyed  father  and  got  yourself  into  trou- 
ble on  my  account  ?  "  mutters  Everett  with  a  slight  sigh. 

"  Oh  !  I'd  do  it  over  again  every  time  to  see  you  kick,* 
returns  the  little  girl,  giving  her  brother  another  hug. 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  15 

But  this  interview  is  suddenly  broken  in  upon.  With 
a  kind  of  simultaneous  emotion,  the  crowd  of  Yale  men, 
that  has  gradually  been  growing  larger  about  Phil,  make 
a  rush  at  him,  and  though  he  struggles  good-humoredly 
and  cries  out  he  won't  have  it,  they  pick  him  up,  and  sing- 
ing a  wild  college  glee,  carry  him  in  triumph  out  of  the 
place  and  deposit  him  on  the  sidewalk. 

Whereupon  the  Irish  door-keeper  of  the  base-ball 
grounds,  becoming  inspired  by  Yale  sentiment  and  Yale 
victory,  and  getting  his  colors  mixed,  joins  in  with  "  The 
Green  above  the  Red,"  and  calls  out :  "  Down  with  the 
Hairvards  and  the  English,  and  all  who  float  that  bloody 
color ! " 

This  raises  a  laugh,  and  taking  advantage  of  it  Phil 
hurries  his  sister  into  her  carriage,  that  has  been  waiting 
for  the  little  lady ;  then,  stepping  in  himself,  says  to  the 
coachman  :  "  Home  !  " 

As  he  drives  off,  the  crowd  cheer  him  and  give  a  Yale 
yell ;  and  even  as  he  smiles  back  at  them  and  calls  out 
he's  going  to  New  Haven  with  them  on  the  evening  train 
his  face  becomes  so  gloomy  and  disturbed  that  his  sister 
cries  at  him  :  "  What  are  you  so  black  about,  Phil  ? "  then 
suddenly  whispers  :  "  Is  it  mother  ?  "  and  clings  to  him. 

But  he  only  answers  her  by  a  caress  that  is  half  a  sigh, 
and  goes  into  silent  meditation  till  the  brougham  draws 
up  in  front  of  one  of  the  handsomest  residences  on 
Beacon  Street,  both  as  regards  house  and  location.  It  is 
a  spacious  brown-stone  facing  and  overlooking  the  beau- 
tiful botanical  gardens,  from  which,  in  the  autumn,  it 
receives  the  perfumes  of  myriad  flowers  and  shrubs. 

Telling  his  sister  to  run  upstairs  and  he'll  see  her  be- 
fore he  goes,  he  turns  to  the  servant  who  has  opened 
the  door  and  says  :  "  Father  in,  Thomas  ? " 

"Yes,  sir,"  answers  the  man.  "  He's  been  asking  for 
you  ever  since  he  heard  you'd  come  from  New  Haven 
to-day." 

"  Very  well,  I'll  see  him  now,"  mutters  the  young  man, 
and  steps  into  the  library  with  a  very  solemn  face  to 
meet  his  father,  Robert  Everett,  one  of  Boston's  finan- 
cial magnates. 

This  gentleman  is  as  unlike  his  son  as  a  nervous 
gray  fox-terrier  is  to  a  mastiff  ;  his  manner  is  quick, 
snappy,  fidgety,  save  at  sundry  intervals,  when  he  draws 


l6  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE,. 

himself  up  and  assumes  the  old-fashioned  dignity  of  a 
past  generation.  He  is  evidently  in  a  fearful  humor, 
and  greets  his  son  with  no  more  kindly  words  of  welcome 
than  a  savage  "  So  you've  got  a  black  eye,  eh  ?  Been 
fighting  again,  sir  ?  " 

To  this  Phil  answers  respectfully,  though  his  other  eye 
becomes  red  with  passion  and  his  lips  tremble,  showing  a 
struggle  for  self-control :  "  I've  not  been  fighting  again, 
for  I  never  fight.  This  black  eye  is  a  souvenir  of  the 
foot-ball  match  of  to-day." 

"  And  what's  that  but  fighting — a  mere  excuse  to  punch 
each  other's  heads  off  in  sections  ?  The  faculty  think  so 
also  ;  they  forbade  this  match,  I'm  told,  and  threatened 
suspension  to  all  who  played-!  "  cries  the  old  man. 

'  Yes,  sir." 

'  And  yet  you  performed  in  it  ?  " 

'The  faculty  '11  come  round  all  right." 

'  But  7  won't !  "  says  the  father,  grimly.  Then  he 
suddenly  cries  out :  "  Who  won  ?  " 

'  Yale  ! " 

'  And  you  helped  them  ?  " 

'  I  did  my  best,  and,  I  think,  my  share." 

'  Ah  !  came  here  to  disgrace  your  native  town,  Boston, 
by  beating  its  college,  Harvard,  and  holding  it  up  to 
ridicule.  For  this  you  defy  your  own  professors  and  risk 
expulsion  and  disgrace  to  my  name — do  you  hear  me, 
sir  ? — MY  NAME  !  "  And  the  old  gentleman,  working  him- 
self up  to  a  sexagenarian  fury,  goes  into  a  long  rigmarole 
of  invective,  pacing  the  floor  with  rapid  footsteps,  while 
the  young  man  gazes  at  him  with  a  little  sneer  of  con- 
tempt, though  he  is  nervously  chewing  the  end  of  his 
brown  mustache. 

At  last  from  want  of  breath  the  elder  man  gives  the 
younger  one  a  chance  to  speak.  Then  Phil  Everett  says 
quietly:  "This  attack  on  me  and  foot-ball  and  my  college 
is  not  the  reason  of  your  anger.  Suppose  you  give  me 
the  true  cause,  father." 

"  Then,  if  you  will  have  it,"  cries  the  senior  Everett,  as 
if  he  had  been  anxious  to  save  his  son  and  is  only  forced 
to  revelation  by  the  young  man's  importunity,  "  here  it 
is — from  England."  And  opening  a  drawer  in  his  desk, 
he  produces  a  letter. 

The  document  is  from  London,  and  signed  by  Messrs. 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  17 

Shamerstein,  Abrahamoff  &  Co. ,  Bankers.  It  brie6y  asks 
for  payment  of  a  bill  endorsed  by  Philip  E.  T.  Everett, 
the  paper  having  gone  to  protest ;  and  states  that  it  has 
been  placed  in  their  correspondent's  hands  in  Boston  for 
collection. 

"  I  took  up  that  note  to-day — look  at  it  !  "  cries  the 
father,  producing  from  his  pocket-book  an  I.  O.  U.  for 
^£400,  dated  some  three  months  previous,  signed  by  one 
John  Colquhoun  Heather,  and  endorsed  by  Philip  E.  T. 
Everett. 

Then  he  remarks  savagely  :  "  What  do  you  say  to 
that?" 

"  I  say,"  cries  Phil,  "  that  I  never  received  one  farthing 
of  that  money.  I  had  met  Lord  John  Heather,  and 
found  him  a  perfect  gentleman.  I  endorsed  simply  as  a 
matter  of  accommodation.  Heather  has  suddenly  been 
called  to  India  and  must  have  forgotten  the  matter  in  the 
hurry  of  departure.  He  is  an  officer  in  the  Scotch  Fusi- 
leer  Guards,  and  probably — like  most  men  of  his  class — 
careless  as  regards  business.  I  was  notified  of  the  pro- 
test and  sent  five  hundred  dollars  on  account  I  have 
written  to  Heather,  and  know  that  paper  will  ultimately 
be  paid  by  him. " 

"  All  right ;  inform  me  when  his  lordship  is  ready  to 
honor  his  signature  and  I'll  be  very  happy  to  transfer 
the  note,"  remarks  the  elder  Everett  grimly.  "  At  pres- 
ent I  have  charged  it  to  your  account  ;  and  this  with 
other  drafts  gives  you  only  five  hundred  dollars  to  go 
through  your  senior  year." 

"I'll  get  along  with  that,"  remarks  Phil  with  a  wince. 
Then  he  says  hopefully  :  "  But  Heather  will  doubtless 
make  it  good  before  long  ;  I'm  confident  of  his  being  an 
honorable  gentleman." 

"  You're  welcome  to  your  belief  in  your  lord,"  sneers 
the  father.  But  here  he  comes ,  to  the  true  gist  of  the 
matter ;  his  face  gets  white  with  rage,  and  he  cries  out  : 
"  How  did  you  come  to  be  in  London  this  summer  ?  and 
where  did  you  pick  up  your  aristocrat  ?  " 

"  Lord  John  Heather,"  says  the  young  man  rapidly, 
"  is  a  friend  of  my  moth — "  Here  he  suddenly  bites  the 
word  in  two  and  swallows  the  latter  part  of  it. 

"  A  friend  of  your  mother's  !  Don't  try  to  dodge  the 
word  !  "  yells  the  old  man,  growing  livid.  "  Then  it  is 
* 


ft  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

as  I  guessed  the  instant  I  saw  this  cursed  paper.  When 
I  thought  you  salmon-fishing  in  Labrador  last  summel 
you  had  gone  over  to  England  to  see  your  mother." 

"  You  guessed  right,"  says  the  son,  with  a  pale  face  but 
determined  voice.  "  I  went  by  the  Allen  line  from  Que- 
bec." 

"  Despite  my  orders  not  to  visit  that  wo " 

"I'll  trouble  you  not  to  say  anything  against  my 
mother,"  whispers  the  young  man.  "If  you  do,  I'll — " 
But  he  says  no  more,  for  his  father  cries  out :  "  And  you, 
Phil,  my  son,  have  turned  your  back  on  me  !  You — you 
— YOU  !  "  and  sinks  down  with  tears  of  mixed  rage  and 
agony  in  his  old  eyes. 

Looking  at  him,  the  son  turns  over  in  his  mind  the 
following  facts :  His  father,  an  old  man  of  sixty-five, 
made  irritable  by  the  strange  combination  of  sensitive 
nerves  and  Puritanical  nature  ;  his  mother,  still  young  at 
forty,  who  loves  fashion,  pleasure,  and  gayety,  and,  worst 
of  all  in  her  husband's  eyes,  does  not  hesitate  to  lavish 
his  large  fortune  on  the  same.  These  two  gradually 
drawing  apart,  until  they  have  reached  a  practical  sepa- 
ration. They  have  no  grounds  for  divorce,  save  incom- 
patibility of  temper  and  uncongenial  dispositions. 

The  mother  spending  a  great  portion  of  her  time  in 
Europe,  the  father  striving  to  make  his  two  children  take 
his  part  in  the  family  quarrel — to  alienate  their  affections 
from  their  mother. 

It  is  this  thought  that  makes  the  son  gaze  at  his  father 
sternly  ;  but  as  he  looks,  the  tears  in  the  old  man's  eyes 
soften  him.  He  says  quietly  :  "  You  can  never  turn  my 
face  from  my  mother's  love.  You  know  that,  father ! 
Best  give  it  up  ;  let  me  honor  you  and  her  together.  I 
shall  do  the  best  I  can  this  year  with  my  allowance. 
Good-by."  And  leaving  the  room,  he  goes  upstairs  to 
make  some  preparations  for  his  return  to  New  Haven. 

The  old  gentleman  looks  after  his  departing  son,  and 
after  a  time  sighs  out  :  "  Yes,  I  know  that ;  Phil  '11  never 
give  up  his  mother  for  me  ;  but  he  still  honors  me,  loves 
me  as  his  father.  I'll — I'll — make  up  what  money  to 
him  he  loses  by  his  boyish  endorsement  of  that  lordling's 
paper." 

A  softer  and  more  paternal  feeling  comes  into  his 
heart,  and  all  would  be  well  did  not  at  this  moment 


MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE.  U) 

Bessie  come  running  in,  crying  :  "Where's  Phil,  papa?" 
and  then  looking  round,  whimpers  :  "  Oh,  he  can't  hav« 
gone  without  bidding  me  good-by  !  " 

"  You  knew  he  was  here  ? "  says  the  senior  Everett, 
surprised. 

"  Of  course  ;  I  came  home  with  him  from  the  match." 
Here  remembering  her  father's  command,  she  stops  very 
suddenly  and  her  pretty  face  gets  red. 

"  So — you — went  against  my  orders  !  Are  all  my  chil- 
dren to  disobey  me  ?  "  cries  the  old  man,  looking  in  a  way 
that  would  frighten  Bessie  had  she  not  been  petted  and 
spoiled  and  is  now  about  to  show  it. 

"  Oh,"  she  says  airily,  thinking  to  carry  off  this  situa- 
tion as  she  has  done  a  dozen  similar  ones,  and  not  know- 
ing her  father's  present  nervous  irritation,  "  I  didn't 
suppose  you  meant  what  you  said." 

"  And  why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  that  would  have  been  too  stupid." 

"  Too  stupid,  you !  " 

"  Yes,  too  stupid,  papa,  to  keep  me  from  having  a  good 
time  because  you  were  down  on  Phil.  Besides,  to  see 
such  a  lovely  game  I'd  go  if  you  told  me  a  hundred  times 
not  to,  you  dear  old  foolish  papa,  you — "  Here  she 
tries  to  pat  her  parent's  head,  and  run  her  hand  through 
his  scanty  white  locks,  and  tickle  his  venerable  ear;  a 
plan  that  has  worked  admirably  up  to  this  time,  but  now 
has  a  very  bad  effect,  as  it  reminds  him  of  some  of  hef 
mother's  former  wiles  to  coax  checks  out  of  his  bank- 
book. 

"  You  impudent  little  minx  !  "  he  cries.  "  How  dare 
you  call  me  old  and  foolish  ?  Unless  you  are  respectful 
to  me  I  shall  punish  you  ! "  And  seizing  her  by  one 
of  her  plump  white  arms  he  stands  her  in  front  of 
him. 

Now  this  grip  on  her  wrist  hurts  Miss  Bessie,  who  is 
not  accustomed  to  such  treatment ;  besides,  her  pride  is 
wounded  by  his  threat.  She  loses  her  temper  and  cries 
back  at  him  :  "  Punish  me  ?  I  dare  you  to  do  it ! 
Punish  me  f  You  can't  bully  me  as  you  did  my  mother. 
Punish  me  ?  I  dare  you  I " 

" SMACK ! " 

She  has  been  taken  at  her  word,  and  is  staring  at  her 
eather.  holding  a  little  hand  to  her  ear  and  cheek  that  have 


20  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

become  pink  under  her  father's  discipline,  upon  whom  she 
is  gazing  speechless  and  astounded,  for  until  now  she 
has  never  been  boxed  in  her  life. 

The  old  gentleman  is  gazing  upon  his  wayward  off- 
spring, astonished  also,  for  he  had  never  laid  hand  upon 
his  pert  little  daughter  before,  though  this  time  the  pro 
vocation  has  been  beyond  his  self-control. 

He  is  about  to  be  more  astonished. 

For  now  a  great  brown  hand  is  inserted  into  the  collar 
of  his  coat,  upon  which  it  takes  a  vice-like  grip,  and  a 
kind  of  human  derrick  lifts  him  and  skips  him  along  on 
tip-toe,  and  with  a  wrench  that  tears  the  garment  from 
neck  to  waist,  gives  him  an  awful  yank  that  deposits  him 
in  an  arm-chair  with  a  scream  of  amazed  terror,  while 
Philip  Everett  hisses  into  his  face:  "You  miserable 
brute  !  If  you  lay  hands  upon  that  child  again  I'll  for- 
get I  am  your  son  and—  He  does  not  put  the  rest 
into  words,  but  his  look  fills  out  the  sentence. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  have  forgotten  that  already  ? " 
whispers  his  father,  giving  a  cool,  steely,  awful,  unfor- 
giving, unforgetting  look  at  the  young  man,  who,  having 
made  his  preparations  for  departure,  has  been  looking 
for  his  sister,  and  hearing  her  voice  in  the  library,  has 
entered  just  in  time  to  see  the  box  on  the  ear,  but  not 
what  had  provoked  it. 

"  Perhaps  ;  but  I  won't  have  you  strike  my  sister." 

"She  was  an  impertinent  child  and  deserved  correc- 
tion. And  you  dared  in  my  own  house  to  raise  your  hand 
against  me — your  father  ?  It  is  the  last  time  you  shall 
ever  enter  it.  Out  of  my  home — FOREVER  !  "  Then,  with 
the  same  stony,  uncompromising,  unforgiving  stare  on 
his  face,  the  old  man  rises  to  his  feet  and  points  sternly 
to  the  door. 

But  here  Bessie,  who  has  recovered  her  voice,  throws 
herself  between  them  and  cries  to  her  father  to  forgive 
Phil,  who  did  it  for  love  of  her — that  she  deserved  it — 
that  he  can  punish  her  all  he  wants  if  he'll  only  forget 
what  her  darling  brother  has  done. 

But  Robert  Everett's  hand  still  points  to  the  door, 
and  he  says  to  his  son  :  "Out/  Let  me  see  your  face 
for  the  last  time  ! " 

"  Not  till  you  promise  to  keep  your  hands  off  Bessie." 

*  Certainly,"  says  his  father.     "  In  a  moment  of  provo- 


MISS   NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE.  if 

cation  I  forgot  myself.  You  may  trust  her  with  me 
Outofthvfdoor/" 

Then  Phil,  knowing  Bessie  is  as  certain  of  pardon  as 
he  is  of  unforgiveness,  seizes  his  sister,  who  is  sobbing 
at  the  work  she  has  done,  gives  her  a  long,  passionate 
squeeze  and  kiss,  and  staggers  from  his  father's  house. 

On  the  sidewalk  he  takes  a  long  look  at  the  home  of 
his  childhood,  and  mutters :  "  An  insult  to  his  pride — 
he'll  never  forgive  that."  Then  he  does  something  he 
has  not  done  before  in  his  life — counts  the  money  in  his 
pocket.  A  moment  after  he  sneers  :  "  I  can't  go  through 
Yale  on  nothing  but  a  fifty-dollar  note  and  two  nickels 
By  George,  my  best  kick  at  foot-ball  was  my  last  1 " 


CHAPTER  IL 

PETE,   THE   COWBOY. 

WITH  a  rather  gloomy  countenance,  Phil  takes  his  way 
to  the  Parker  House,  where  he  imagines  he  will  find 
some  college  chums,  who  will  doubtless  give  him  some- 
thing else  than  his  own  woes  to  think  about. 

But  no  young  man  is  sad  very  long  at  the  thought 
of  making  his  own  living ;  it  takes  maturity  to  teach  him 
the  terrors  of  the  battle  of  life,  its  disappointments  and 
despairs. 

By  the  time  he  turns  down  School  Street  he  is  whis- 
tling a  popular  air ;  and  when  he  enters  the  Parker  House 
he  is  laughing  to  himself  at  the  thought  of  how  he'll 
astonish  his  father  by  making  a  million  or  two  in  some 
way  ;  for  the  young  Yale  half-back  has  got  to  thinking  he 
can  kick  a  goal  as  surely  in  the  game  of  fortune  as  he  did 
in  the  day's  foot-ball  match. 

No  collegians  chancing  to  be  in  the  reading-room,  he. 
picks  up  an  evening  edition  of  one  of  the  day's  papers, 
and  glancing  over  it  has  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  name 
in  big  letters  heading  the  account  of  the  foot-ball  game. 

Immediately  below  he  notes  a  letter  from  Silver  City, 
New  Mexico,  announcing  wonderful  discoveries  of  ore 
in  the  Bully  Boy  mine,  with  a  long  account  of  its  luoky 
owners  and  the  fortunes  that  the  earth  has  yielded  to 


ft  MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE. 

their  persevering  picks.  One,  whose  credit  wasn't  go»D<i 
for  a  sack  of  flour  has,  according  to  this  highly-colored 
article,  just  refused  a  million  for  his  interest.  In  the 
fashion  of  all  mining  reports,  this  one  runs  along,  men- 
tioning rich  discoveries  everywhere  in  the  district,  and 
failures  and  disappointment  nowhere. 

This  mass  of  exaggeration  Philip,  who  has  not  yet 
learned  the  prospector's  maxim  that  "  Every  mine  is  a 
good  one  until  you  look  at  it,"  believes,  and  when  he 
rises  from  the  perusal  has  made  up  his  mind,  with  the 
prompt  decision  of  youth,  that  Silver  City,  New  Mexico, 
is  the  arena  upon  which  he  will  run  his  first  course  to 
win  for  himself  fortune.  Fame,  he  fondly  thinks,  has 
already  come  to  him  this  day. 

This  settled  in  his  mind,  he  suddenly  remembers  he 
has  had  no  dinner,  and  entering  the  dining-room,  sees 
his  foot-ball  captain,  with  several  members  of  the  team, 
taking  a  severely  Spartan  meal ;  for  the  Princeton  game 
occurs  the  coming  week,  and  in  matters  of  training  this 
dignitary  is  a  strict  disciplinarian  to  himself  as  well  as 
the  rest  of  the  team. 

If  Phil  is  not  to  play,  it  is  necessary  that  the  captain 
be  notified  at  once,  so  that  a  substitute  may  be  ready. 
He  hardly  knows  how  to  open  a  proposition  that  he  feels 
sure  will  be  combated  as  monstrous  and  horrible  since 
this  day's  successful  effort. 

Thinking  the  matter  over,  he  laughs  grimly  to  himself: 
"I'll  break  the  ice  with  ice-cream,"  and  selecting  a  con- 
spicuous table,  whispers  to  his  waiter  directions  for  a 
generous  meal.  "  By  George,  I'm  out  of  training  now; 
I'll  enjoy  it !  "  he  mutters,  and  adds  champagne  to  his 
order. 

He  "hasn't  got  very  far  in  his  dinner  when,  looking 
about,  he  notes  that  his  team  companions  are  staring  at 
his  meal  in  horror,  and  his  captain  has  a  stern  and  terri- 
ble look  upon  his  face,  while  Van  Beekman,  who  is  at  an 
adjacent  table,  has  turned  white,  for  the  poor  little  fellow 
has  backed  Yale  heavily  for  the  Princeton  affair. 

A  moment  after  the  captain  rises,  and  striding  over 
to  Phil's  table,  whispers  in  an  awful  and  severe  voice : 
"Champagne!  My  Heaven!  are  you  mad,  Everett? 
Champagne  !  Stop  drinking  that  poison  instantly  I "  as 
Phil  is  just  punishing  another  glass  of  the  wine.  A  second 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  aj 

iater,  the  martinet  actually  screams  out :  "  Ice-cream  !  " 
for  the  waiter  is  putting  a  plate  of  that  stomach  destroyer 
before  his  half-back.  Then  he  gasps  out:  "You  are 
crazy  !  "  for  the  captain,  hardly  believing  his  eyes,  almost 
thinks  it  an  hallucination,  and  that  either  he  or  Everett 
must  be  insane. 

u  Not  at  all,"  says  Phil,  quietly,  finding  his  chance  to 
open  the  matter.  "  I've  gone  out  of  training  and  am 
taking  advantage  of  the  fact  to  get  the  first  square  meal 
I've  had  for  two  months." 

"  Out  of  training  !  "  echoes  the  captain.  Then  he  gives 
a  hideous  laugh  and  cries  out  to  the  other  Yale  men  who 
have  gathered  about:  "  By  the  immortal  Bob  Cook  !  he's 
forgotten  the  Princeton  match." 

"  Not  at  all,"  remarks  Everett,  calmly.  **  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  play  in  it." 

"  Not  play  in  it  !  "  cry  several  of  his  surrounders,  who 
look  even  more  concerned  than  before  ;  for  Phil  Everett, 
full  of  champagne  and  ice-cream,  and  fattened  for  days 
on  macaroons  and  syllabubs,  will  still  be  a  harder  man  for 
the  Princeton  rush  line  to  tackle  than  any  substitute  that 
they  can  put  into  his  position  at  this  late  day. 

After  a  moment's  glum  consideration,  the  captain  mut- 
ters: "  You  must  have  some  weighty  reason  for  this  ? " 

"I  have,"  returns  Phil,  "and  if  you'll  come  with  me 
I'll  tell  it  to  you  as  a  confidence  that  is  your  right." 

So  the  two  move  off  to  a  quiet  corner  of  the  cafe",  where 
Everett  briefly  states  that  family  affairs  compel  him  to 
leave  college  at  once. 

And  though  the  captain  argues  with  him,  nay,  even  begs 
and  implores  him  to  remain  till  after  the  last  game  of  the 
season,  neither  reason  nor  entreaties  have  any  effect ;  for 
this  rapid  young  man,  with  the  impatience  of  his  age,  has 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  every  day  away  from  his 
Eldorado  is  the  chance  of  a  lost  fortune,  and  if  he  does 
not  get  to  Silver  City  soon  there  will  be  no  more  mines 
left  upon  which  he  can  pounce  to  make  him  wealthy. 

A  few  minutes  after  this  interview  Phil  gives  a  sudden 
start.  It  has  just  occurred  to  him  that  railroad  tickets 
cost  money.  Without  funds,  how  shall  he  get  to  his  dis- 
tant Eldorado? 

This  matter  is  made  easier  to  him  a  moment  after 
ward.  Van  Beekman  saunters  up  to  him  and  says,  foi 


24  MISS  NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE. 

the  rumor  has  gone  around  :  "  Had  a  row  with  papa,  eb 
That  don't  amount  to  much.    You  should — awh — handle 
your  paternal  as  I  do." 

"  How  is  that  ? "  asks  Everett,  a  little  curiously. 

"  Why,  kiss  it  out  of  him  in  public.  My  dad  was  once 
going  to  row  me  at  Delmonico's.  I  was  only  seventeen 
and  drinking  B.  &  S.,  and  he  was  going  to  pitch  into  me 
for  it.  It  would  have  been  awfully  embarrassing  before 
a  lot  of  men,  yer  know.  He  had  just  shouted  at  me  across 
the  cafe",  in  a  fearfully  savage  voice  :  '  What's  that  you  re 
drinking,  sir  ? '  when  I  stopped  him.  I  cried  :  '  Oh,  is 
that  you,  papa  dear,  you  lovely  old  chap  ;  come  down  to 
have  fun  with  your  little  sonny  ?  You  look  so  pretty  I 
am  going  to  kiss  your  dear  old  face  ! '  And  up  I  jumped 
and  seized  him  and  embraced  him  and  kissed  him  till  I — 
awh — actually  kissed  him  out  of  the  place,  for  he  fled 
from  me  in  horror,  my  boy.  But  I  tell  you  it  took  nerve 
to  do  it.  While  the  chaps  were  laughing  and  cheering 
I  took  two  more  B.  &  S.'s  to  stiffen  me.  By  the  bye, 
Burton  paid  his  joint  bet  with  us  that  he  lost  on  this 
game.  Here's  the  bills.  Tin  is  always  handy  when 
daddy  turns  his  back  on  you."  And  handing  Everett 
a  wad  of  greenbacks,  this  juvenile  philosopher  saunters 
away. 

Phil  gazes  a  moment  at  the  money  and  sneers :  "  I 
didn't  know  I  was  playing  for  my  bread  and  butter  when 
I  made  that  kick.  Wonder  if  this  would  bar  me  out — for 
professionalism  ? "  A  second  after  his  face  gets  hopeful 
as  he  counts  the  money,  and  mutters :  "  Two  hundred 
dollars  !  That'll  take  me  where  I  want  to  go."  Then  he 
steps  down  to  the  Boston  and  Albany  depot  and  takes  the 
train  for  New  Haven. 

The  next  week  the  Yale-Princeton  game  is  played,  and 
without  his  services  Yale  loses  to  that  plucky  little  New 
Jersey  college,  whose  backers  may  always  feel  sure  that 
the  orange  and  black  tiger  stripes  will  never  be  lowered 
so  long  as  desperate  fighting  can  hold  them  up. 

Before  this  Philip  Eaton  Travers  Everett  had  written 
to  his  mother  of  his  quarrel  with  his  father,  and  his  pur- 
pose to  find  fortune  in  the  West,  and  was  on  his  way  to 
New  Mexico,  with  the  most  serviceable  of  his  fine  raiment 
packed  in  a  valise  initialled  "  P.  E.  T.  E.,"  and  some  three 
hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket,  the  proceeds  of  a  forced 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  25 

sale  of  his  college  effects,  less  various  claims  npon  him 
for  local  bills. 

A  few  days  after  this  he  is  standing  In  the  bar-room 
of  the  "  Pot-Luck  "  Hotel,  Silver  City,  and  has  already 
found  the  road  to  fortune  a  hard  one,  having  dropped 
one-half  his  cash  in  a  poker  game  into  which  he  had  been 
beguiled  by  some  professional  gamblers,  one  of  them  a 
Mexican  monte  dealer  disguised  as  a  cattleman,  another 
figuring  as  a  Methodist  parson,  and  the  third  as  a  drum 
mer  for  a  St.  Louis  dry-goods  house. 

Hotels  in  New  Mexican  mining  towns  at  that  time 
were  made  either  of  adobe  or  unseasoned  lumber,  their 
partitions  always  of  the  latter,  and  what  was  said  aloud 
in  one  room  was  the  property  of  the  person  in  the 
next. 

As  Phil  Everett  is  thinking  of  his  loss  rather  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger,  grief  changes  to  indignation,  for  he  hears 
the  voice  of  the  supposed  Mexican  cattle-drover,  in  the 
office  adjoining,  laughingly  telling  in  broken  English  how 
he  scalped  the  Eastern  jay. 

Without  thought  of  consequences,  he  steps  into  the 
room,  and  confronting  the  swindler,  calls  him  a  robber 
and  slaps  his  face  ;  and  is  pulling  off  his  coat  to  fight, 
and  would  be  dead  the  next  minute,  for  the  gambler  is 
drawing  his  pistol,  when  the  cold  muzzle  of  an  old- 
fashioned  Colt's  revolver  is  clapped  against  the  Mexi- 
can's forehead,  and  a  quiet  voice  says  in  his  ear  :  "  Up 
with  your  hands,  Three-Card  Juan  !  Quick!  or  I'll  blow 
your  brains  into  the  spittoon  I  I  won't  have  no  inno- 
cents without  guns  murdered  round  heah  !  " 

This  address  is  very  rapidly  obeyed  ;  for  it  comes  from 
Brick  Garvey,  the  sheriff  of  the  county,  and  one  of  the 
surest  shots  in  the  West. 

"  Now,"  says  the  old  gentleman,  who  has  white  hair, 
and  has  been  one  of  the  pioneers  of  Texas,  where  he  has 
learned  the  trade  of  slaying  with  Samson  Potter,  Sam 
Houston,  Jack  Hayes,  and  other  celebrated  frontiersmen 
— "  now  " — his  voice  is  very  kindly — "  now,  we'll  inves- 
tigate affairs  a  leetle."  Then  he  suddenly  whispers  : 
"  Hands  up,  Juan  ! — or  ye  won't  know  what's  hurt  ye," 
for  he  has  caught  a  suspicious  movement  on  the  part  of 
the  monte  dealer.  "  Perhaps  it'll  be  safer  for  you  if  I 
remove  your  weepons,"  which  he  does  with  the  expertness 


«6  MISS   NOBODY  OF    NOWHERE, 

of  long  practice,  confiscating  a  revolver  from  the  man's 
hip-pocket,  and  bowie-knife  from  his  boot. 

"  What  kind  of  a  show  would  you  have  had  with  these 
ag?in  you,  Tenderfoot  ?  "  he  remarks,  with  a  grin,  to  Phil, 
who  is  standing  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  "  What  were  you 
going  to  do  with  that  sharper,  anyways  ?  " 

"  Hammer  him  !  "  cries  Phil,  and  tells  his  story. 

"  Hammer  him  ?    What  with  ? — a  club  ?  " 

"  No,  with  my  fists  !  " 

To  this  Garvey  cries  suddenly :  **  So  you  shall  if  you're 
able  to.  Stand  up  before  him,  Three-Card  Juan  !  Stand 
up  with  nature's  weepons  and  show  if  you're  the  best 
man  ;  stand  up  or  I'll  perforate  ye  !  " 

Thus  commanded,  Three-Card  Juan,  who  has  had 
much  experience  in  rough-and-tumble  bar-room  rows, 
draws  himself  together,  and  before  Phil  knows  what  is 
coming,  launches  himself  like  a  wild-cat  on  the  collegian. 

As  he  does  so  Garvey  cries  warningly :  "  Lower  yer 
head  ;  don't  let  the  Greaser  git  his  fingers  in  your  ha'r  !  " 
And  some  of  the  few  spectators  cry :  "  Look  out  for 
gouging  !  "  for  the  monte  man  is  an  awful  expert  at  this 
cruel  Mexican  trick,  and  would  have  Everett's  eyes  out  of 
his  head  in  a  second  had  not  the  young  man's  hair  been 
cropped  short  for  foot-ball  purposes,  so  Juan  can  get  no 
finger  purchase. 

The  next  instant  Phil  has  torn  himself  from  his  op- 
ponent's grasp,  with  his  eyes  even  now  inflamed  and  red, 
for  the  scoundrel  has  already  done  some  work  upon 
them.  Then  his  big  fist  shoots  out  straight  from  his 
shoulder  and  Three-Card  Juan  goes  into  the  corner  in  a 
bunch.  But  it  is  only  to  take  another  spring,  and  he  is 
again  upon  Phil,  biting,  scratching,  and  kicking,  though 
a  minute  after  felled  again  ;  for  his  strength  is  as  almost 
a  boy's  compared  to  the  Yale  rusher's  trained  muscles. 

"  Don't  fight  that  cat  scientific,  you  young  fool  !  Use 
your  feet ;  he  does  his.  Your  legs  look  good  enough 
When  he  kicks,  you  kick  !  " 

"  So  I  will,"  mutters  Phil,  grimly,  as  his  opponent,  who 
has  been  circling  round  him,  Indian  fashion,  thinking  he 
sees  an  opening,  springs  for  the  collegian's  face. 

As  the  gambler  rises  to  his  leap,  Everett,  taking  one 
step  forward,  swings  his  leg  with  the  same  weight  and 
power  he  put  into  the  mighty  drop  kick  on  the  Boston 


MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE.  «? 

grounds  but  two  short  weeks  before  ;  his  foot  meets  the 
little  Mexican  in  mid-air,  and  sends  him  sailing  through 
the  open  door  on  to  the  bar-room  floor,  where  he  lies  writh- 
ing and  would  groan  with  agony  and  cry  out  only  that 
he  has  no  breath  in  him  with  which  to  do  it. 

A  little  gasp  of  surprise  comes  from  the  spectators, 
and  Garvey  cries  in  astonishment  :  "  Good  Lord,  what  a 
kick  !  Darn  me  if  you  didn't  hoist  him  as  if  he  war  a 
foot-ball.  I'd  bet  on  you  ag'in  a  mule.  Run,  somebody, 
and  get  a  tape-line  and  measure  the  distance  the  Greaser 
went." 

And  they  do  so — and  to  this  day  the  marks  are  on  that 
bar-room  floor — it  is  called  the  "  Tenderfoot's  Kick,"  and 
measures  twelve  feet  seven  and  one-half  inches. 

While  this  is  going  on  Garvey  suddenly  asks  :  "  What's 
your  name,  anyway  ?  " 

And  the  hotel-clerk,  who  is  anxious  to  have  his  say  in 
the  matter,  answers  promptly,  *'  Pete  ! "  for  he  has  read 
the  initials,  "  P.  E.  T.  E  "  on  Phil's  valise. 

The  collegian,  who  has  not  as  yet  registered,  being 
perhaps  rather  ashamed  of  his  part  in  what  has  just 
taken  place,  does  not  contradict  him,  and  from  that  time 
on  Phil  Everett  is  known  throughout  New  Mexico  and 
Arizona  by  the  humble  but  expressive  cognomen  spelt  by 
his  initials. 

Shortly  after,  the  Mexican  showing  signs  of  revival, 
Mr.  Garvey  remarks  :  "  I'll  jist  put  that  Greaser  in  the 
lock-up ;  the  jidge  '11  give  him  three  months  for  card- 
sharping." 

"  Hasn't  the  scoundrel  had  punishment  enough  ? " 
remarks  Phil,  looking  at  the  man,  who  can  hardly 
move. 

"  Young  man,  I  do  this  to  save  your  life,"  returns  Gar- 
vey, shortly.  "  If  he  stayed  out,  he'd  perforate  you  sure 
By  the  time  he's  loose  ag'in  you  must  be  heeled  and  able 
to  take  care  of  yourself.  And  before  further  trouble  arises 
I'll  give  you  a  leetle  advice  :  Shoot  your  man  dead  in  this 
community  fust,  and  call  him  a  liar  afterward ;  other- 
wise, you'll  be  planted  before  you've  got  used  to  the  cli- 
mate. Let's  liquor,  boys ;  and  give  that  Greaser  some 
whiskey,  too.  My  under-sheriff  runs  a  prohibition  jail, 
and  it'll  be  a  long  time  for  Juan  between  drinks."  With 
this  he  drags  the  card-sharper  off  to  jail,  leaving  the 


38  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

crowd  shuddering  at  the  horrible  thought  of  a  temper 
ance  prison. 

Returning  from  this  duty,  he  takes  Everett  aside  and 
asks  him  if  he  has  got  a  gun  yet. 

Meeting  with  a  negative  reply,  he  leads'  his  protege  to 
a  neighboring  store,  where,  among  other  commodities, 
they  have  arms  for  sale,  and  tells  him  to  invest. 

Which  Phil,  seeing  the  wisdom  of  his  advice,  does,  and 
is  helped  in  the  selection  by  the  experience  of  his  mentor, 
who  explains  the  "  p'ints  "  of  the  weapon  to  him  and  how 
it  must  be  carried  to  be  a  quick  draw ;  that  he  doesn't 
favor  snap-shooting,  even  in  a  "  gineral  scrimmage,"  as 
speed  is  important,  but  "  fatality  vital." 

Having  obtained  the  revolver  for  him,  Mr.  Garvey  also 
shows  Pete  how  to  use  it,  and  in  the  course  of  a  few  days' 
practice  his  steady  nerves  and  good  eye  have  done  such 
wonders  that  the  sheriff  is  elated  and  remarks,  "  That 
he  thinks  it's  safe  to  let  Three-Card  Juan  out  of  jail,  as 
Pete  can  take  care  of  himself  nights." 

During  these  instructions  Mr.  Garvey  works  up  quite 
an  affection  for  the  young  collegian,  who  tells  him  of  his 
reasons  for  coming  to  Silver  City  and  his  hopes  of  mak- 
ing a  fortune  in  mines. 

At  this  the  old  gentleman  whistles  sadly,  and  then  re- 
marks :  "  Thar's  lots  come  with  them  ideas,  but  mighty 
few  goes  away  with  them.  Though,  if  one  does  hit  it 
rich,  like  the  Bully  Boy,  it  means  sudden  bullion ;  but 
cattle's  the  sure  go,  slower  but  more  sartin,  and  jist  as 
big  as  mining  in  the  long  run." 

Phil  has,  however,  set  his  heart  on  mining,  and  Garvey 
leaves  him,  promising  to  do  what  he  can  for  him,  and  re- 
marking, with  a  wink  :  "  The  sheriff  sometimes  hears  of 
ihings  officially." 

Some  two  weeks  after  these  mysterious  words,  Gar* 
vey  comes  to  Phil  and  brings  with  him  the  greatest 
temptation  that  has  yet  come  into  the  young  man's 
life. 

"  Pete,"  he  says,  "  the  Slap  Jack  mine  has  been  in  liti« 
gation.  The  litigation  is  ended,  and  so  is  the  capital  of 
the  owners.  Now  they  offer  a  one-half  interest  for  ten 
thousand  dollars,  to  be  used  in  prospecting  the  claim. 
It's  been  divided  into  four  parts  ;  that's  twenty-five  hun- 
dred dollars  for  a  share.  I'm  going  in  for  one,  and  so 


HISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  3* 

are  Sam  Hicks  and  Billy  Benson,  and  I  can  git  you  the 
other  share,  that's  one-eighth  of  the  property.  Of  course, 
it  ain't  dead  sure — you  can't  buy  developed  mines  for 
twenty  thousand  dollars — but  it's  a  fighting  show  for 
a  big  property.  It's  sartin  on  the  same  vein  as  the 
Bully  Boy,  and  if  they  make  a  strike  it  will  be  a  stem- 
winder  ;  besides,  Billy  Benson's  going  into  it,  and  he's 
the  luckiest  and  sharpest  operator  about  here.  I'll  lay 
my  money  alongside  of  his,  and  if  you're  a  gambler, 
you'll  put  your  chips  on  the  same  card." 

The  day  before  Phil  would  have  told  Garvey  he  didn't 
have  the  money  ;  this  morning  he  has  received  a  letter 
fo  'yarded  to  him  from  Lord  John  Heather ;  in  it  that 
nobleman  has  apologized  for  his  carelessness  in  letting 
his  paper  go  to  protest,  and  enclosed  a  draft  for  the  four 
hundred  pounds  with  interest,  which  makes  something 
over  two  thousand  American  dollars.  This  money  Phil 
itches  to  invest  in  the  Slap  Jack.  He  turns  the  matter 
over  in  his  mind.  If  he  wins  ? — how  easy  it  will  be  to 
take  up  the  protested  note  and  make  his  father  think  the 
Scottish  lord  a  gentleman.  Ic  not? — he  remembers  his 
father's  slur  upon  his  friend,  and  that  settles  the  affair. 
He  endorses  the  draft  to  Robert  Everett's  order,  and 
encloses  it  with  a  short  note,  asking  his  father  to  return 
the  nobleman  his  note.  Then  he  declines  Garvey's 
offer,  and  loses  his  first  and  last  chance  of  a  fortune  in 


mines 


Two  months  after,  an  eighth  interest  in  the  Slap  Jack 
is  worth  fifty  thousand  dollars. 

But  if  he  can't  have  a  good  mine,  Phil  will  get  into  a  bad 
one  ;  and  together  with  a  prospector  named  Follis  he 
begins  work  upon  "  The  Tillie,"  a  location  the  latter  has 
taken  up  and  named  after  his  daughter,  a  slip-shod  girl  of 
some  eight  or  nine. 

Follis's  wife  cooks  for  them  while  Phil  and  the  whole 
Follis  family  live  on  the  remnant  of  the  young  man's 
Eastern  money,  that  by  this  time  has  been  reenforced 
by  a  remittance  of  five  hundred  dollars  from  his  mother. 
For  weeks  and  months  the  two  men  work  at  the  mine. 
with  pick  and  sledge  and  drill,  and  find  no  paying 
ore ;  until  one  day  Phil's  pile  comes  to  an  end,  ana 
Follis,  who  is  as  honest  as  he  is  unfortunate,  tells  him 
that  their  joint  credit  will  not  get  another  sack  of  floci; 


$0  HIM  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

or  pound  of  bacon  ;  so  the  two  dissolve  partnership  and 
leave  "  The  Tillie  "  undeveloped,  in  which  state  it  still 
remains. 

In  this  desperate  plight  Phil,  being  too  proud  to  apply 
to  his  mother  for  aid,  asks  his  friend  Garvey  for  work  ; 
and  gets  it  on  the  latter's  cattle  range  in  the  Valley  of  the 
Rio  Grande,  becoming  a  cowboy  and  gradually  assum- 
ing some  of  the  characteristics  of  the  race,  growing  red 
in  face,  full  in  beard,  expert  with  the  lasso  and  rifle,  and 
murderous  in  his  rough-riding  of  the  broncho  ponies, 
over  which  he  casts  his  lengthy  legs,  armed  at  the  heels 
with  long-rowelled  Mexican  spurs. 

So  it  comes  to  pass  that  some  two  years  after  he  "ad 
turned  his  back  on  the  East,  Pete,  who  has  almost  forgot- 
ten his  real  name,  has  a  better  offer  and  leaves  the  ser- 
vice of  Brick  Garvey  for  that  of  an  English  gentleman 
who  has  just  bought  out  a  Mexican  stock-raiser  in  the 
valley  of  the  San  Francisco,  whose  deed  purported  to 
give  title  to  a  great  many  thousand  acres  of  land  that  he 
claimed  under  one  of  those  myths  of  New  Mexican  real 
estate,  an  old  Spanish  grant. 

This  gentleman,  by  name  Thomas  Willoughby,  is  of 
the  best  blood  in  England,  and  has  been  captain  in  a 
crack  hussar  regiment,  before  he  fell  in  love  with  a 
portionless  girl,  and  marrying,  found  himself  not  rich 
enough  to  keep  his  commission  in  a  branch  of  Her  Maj- 
esty's service  where  his  pay  did  not  liquidate  one-half  his 
mess  bill.  He  has  consequently  resigned  from  the  Brit- 
ish army,  and  come  over  here  alone  to  better  his  fortune, 
selecting,  as  most  Englishmen  do,  a  very  poor  place  for 
his  cattle  enterprise. 

He  likes  Pete's  frank  manner,  though,  the  young  man 
having  grown  rough,  bronzed,  and  hairy,  no  idea  of  his 
cowboy's  education  or  former  position  comes  into  his 
head  ;  and  the  two  live  almost  apart  for  several  months 
with  two  Mexican  stock  herders  and  a  half-breed  named 
Pablo,  who  acts  as  cook. 

This  might  have  gone  along  indefinitely  did  not  the 
cowboy  one  evening  chance  to  astonish  his  employer. 
It  had  been  a  hard  day  on  the  range,  and  Pete,  coming 
in  covered  with  the  dust  of  rounding  up  a  hundred 
wild  Texas  steers,  hears  Willoughby  remark  that  a  little 
cream  would  improve  their  after-dinner  coffee ;  for  the 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  $» 

rarest  of  articles  upon  a  New  Mexican  cattle  ranch  is, 
strangely  enough — milk  ! 

The  cows  refuse  to  rob  their  calves,  and  every  one  is 
too  busy  or  too  lazy  to  coerce  them. 

Hearing  this,  Pete  seizes  a  lariat,  mounts  his  mustang 
again,  and  in  half  an  hour  returns  with  a  bucket  of  the 
unattainable,  having  roped,  thrown,  and  bound  a  long- 
horned  Texas  heifer,  and  forced  her  to  rob  her  calf  for 
Willoughby's  benefit. 

"By  Jove  !  awfully  obliged,"  returns  the  Englishman, 
and  means  it,  though  his  voice  has  that  tone  of  uninterest 
peculiar  to  his  class.  "  I'm  sorry  you  went  to  so  much 
trouble  after  lassoing  all  those  steers.  It's  about  the 
hardest  work  I  ever  ran  against ;  polo's  nothing  to  it." 

"  No,"  remarks  Pete,  "  but  foot-ball  is." 

"  Foot-ball  ?  "  laughs  his  employer.  "  What  do  you 
know  of  foot-ball,  Pete?" 

Then  Pete  surprises  the  captain,  for  he  quietly  says  • 
"  Two  years  ago  1  played  on  the  Yale  team." 

"A  YALE  man — a  cowboy?"  gasps  the  astonished  Brit- 
isher. "  Left  home  and  friends  and  ambition  to  be  a 
cowboy?  You  must  have  had  a  thundering  good 
reason  ?  " 

"  Nothing  that  I'm  ashamed  of,"  answers  Pete. 

"  I  know  you  well  enough  to  know  that,"  says  the 
Englishman,  in  a  tone  that  wins  the  young  man's  heart. 
He  seizes  his  employer's  hand,  wrings  it,  and  mutters; 
"  Don't  ask  my  reason.  Some  day,  perhaps — but  not 
now."  Then  he  strides  out  into  the  calm  Western  night 
and  looks  across  the  mesa  at  the  great  mountains  that  are 
growing  soft  and  dreamy  under  the  rising  moon  ;  and 
there  are  tears  in  his  eyes,  for  he  has  received  no  letter 
from  his  mother  for  months,  and  feels  that  he  is  forgo;*en 
by  the  great  world  that  had  once  been  his  world. 

After  this  occurrence  Willoughby  always  calls  him 
Mr.  Peter  to  his  face,  though  he  still  thinks  of  him  as 
Pete,  being  ten  years  older  than  his  cowboy  ;  but,  gradu- 
ally drawn  together  by  the  solitude  of  these  great  plains 
and  mountains,  similar  educations  and  tastes  soon  make 
the  two  men  acquaintances,  and  after  mutual  service  in 
saving  each  other  from  wild  cattle  and  the  various  othef 
casualties  of  a  Western  range,  the  two  get  to  be  com- 
rades and  love  each  other  with  the  love  of  the  frontier 


-J2  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE, 

Whidh  is  a  greater  and  more  enduring  affection  than  dvft- 
ization-  ia  apt  to  nurture. 

So  things  run  along  for  about  six  months,  when  one 
night  Captain  Willoughby,  whose  absent  loved  ones  are 
often  in  his  mind,  gets  to  talking  about  them,  telling  Pete 
something  of  his  English  life. 

He  has  one  half-brother,  he  says,  a  younger  one, 
Arthur,  the  child  of  his  father's  second  marriage  with  an 
Italian  prima  donna  who  took  London  by  storm  some 
twenty-five  years  before.  "  By  George,"  he  mutters,  after 
a  little  sigh  of  thought,  "  I  wish  he  were  my  elder  brother  ; 
it  would  be  safer  for  me. "  Then,  seeing  Pete's  look  of 
inquiry,  he  puts  aside  the  subject  as  if  it  were  an  un- 
pleasant one,  and  remarks  :  "  I  don't  often  exhibit  these, 
but  some  day  you  may  know  them,  Mr.  Peter  ;  they  are 
my  wife  and  child,"  and  with  this  speech  shows  Pete 
two  pictures — one  of  a  beautiful  woman  of  twenty-seven 
or  so  ;  the  other  a  lovely  little  girl  of  perhaps  eight  or 
nine. 

Pete's  heart  goes  into  his  mouth  as  he  looks  on  these 
specimens  of  feminine  beauty,  for  the  lady  is  of  exquisite 
figure  and  face,  with  deep,  true,  earnest  brown  eyes,  and 
the  child,  when  she  grows  up,  will  be  the  counterpart  of 
her  mother,  save  that  her  expression,  though  very  soft, 
has  more  determination. 

As  the  cowboy  gazes,  the  captain  continues  :  "  If  any- 
thing should  happen  to  me  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
I  want  you  to  forward  this  packet  to  them  in  England," 
and  produces  a  packet  and  some  letters  tied  with  a  blue 
ribbon. 

A  moment  after  he  says  :  "  I  was  so  lonely  without 
them  I  wrote  to  Agnes  to  bring  my  little  Flossie  to  visit 
me  a  month  ago;  but  since  then  news  has  come  that 
may  take  me  back  to  England.  So  I  telegraphed  for 
them  to  remain." 

"I'm  very  glad  of  that,  captain,"  returns  Pete,  in  so 
serious  a  tone  that  his  employer  gazes  at  him  astonished, 
and  asks  his  reason. 

"  Because,"  says  Pete  in  a  very  significant  voice,  "  it's 
getting  near  Apache  time."  • 

"  Why,  we  haven't  heard  of  an  outrage  since  I  carne 
herfc." 

"  No ;   it   was   winter ;   they  were  living  on  the  res 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  33 

ervations  and  letting  their  ponies  get  fat.  Now  it  is 
spring,  and  we'll  hear  from  the  devils  before  long.  I'm 
going  to  Lordsburgh  ;  keep  a  good  look  out,  and  at  the 
first  sign  of  danger  get  over  to  Clifton— AT  ONCE  !  Don't, 
in  your  unbelieving  British  way,  believe — too  late  !  Re- 
member the  Zulus  annihilated  your  Twenty-fourth  regi- 
ment in  South  Africa." 

"  Yes,  and  the  Sioux  destroyed  your  Seventh  cavalry  !  " 
cries  the  captain,  not  relishing  this  slur  on  English  arms. 

"So  much  the  more  reason  for  your  fearing  the 
Apaches,"  returns  Pete,  and  goes  to  bed,  as  he  must 
make  an  early  start  for  his  burning  journey  over  the  Gila 
plains. 

The  next  morning,  after  another  whispered  warning, 
the  cowboy,  driving  two  half-breed  horses  kept  for  the 
purpose,  sets  out  for  Lordsburgh,  some  eighty  miles  to  the 
southwest,  a  little  town  on  the  just  completed  Southern 
Pacific  Railroad,  to  obtain  supplies  for  Willoughby's 
ranch. 

Ke  will  be  due  to  return  early  on  the  fourth  day,  for 
he  will  stop  over  night  at  Yorks  on  the  Gila  and  drive 
up  the  next  morning,  thus  avoiding  the  midday  heat  of 
the  sun  that,  at  this  season  of  the  year,  is  almost  unbear- 
able upon  these  New  Mexican  mesas. 


CHAPTER 

THE   LITTLE   GIRL   FROM    ENGLAND. 

"  THE  Apaches  !  The  Apaches  are  coming  !  Nana 
has  got  a  new  lot  of  devils  from  the  reservations  !  Travel 
out  for  your  lives  !  The  Apaches  are  coming  ! " 

This  cry,  which  is  the  herald  of  death,  torture,  outrage 
and  mutilation  to  men  and  women  on  the  hot  plains, 
rocky  mesas,  and  dry  river-bottoms  of  Arizona  and  New 
Mexico,  rings  out  twice  into  the  light  hazy  air  of  a  tor- 
rid, cloudless,  lazy  Western  morning.  Then  Tom  Wil- 
loughby,  who  has  been  comfortably  smoking  a  brier- 
wood  pipe,  and  drowsily  reading  an  old  copy  of  the  Lon- 
don Times  on  the  fourth  day  after  Pete's  departure, 
springs  up  from  the  hide-seated  chair  upon  which  he  has 


34  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

been  lounging,  and  putting  his  bright  English  face,  tanned 
by  sun  and  weather,  out  of  the"  half-open  door  of  his 
ranch-house,  sharply  but  doubtingly  calls  out,  "  Is  that 
true,  Bill  Jones  ?  " 

"  True  as  I'm  a  living  man,  and  you'll  be  a  dead  one 
if  you  stay  here  !  " 

"  Good  heavens  !     Where  are  they  now  ?  " 

"  Just  behind  that  red  butte  .' ''  And  Jones,  reining  in 
his  half-breed  pony,  who  scents  danger  and  is  as  anxious 
to  be  gone  as  is  his  rider,  points  to  a  high  sugar-loaf  cone 
whose  fire-burnt  hematite  sides  are  just  becoming  ruby 
under  the  morning  sun  rays. 

"  They'll  be  here  in  fifteen  minutes ! " 

"Yes,  and  a  short  fifteen  minutes." 

"  The  two  herders  must  be  warned!  " 

"  The  two  herders  are  both  dead.  They  killed  'em  a 
little  farther  up  the  river — that's  what  gave  me  time  to 
warn  you!  " 

"  Don't  you  think  we  could  stand  them  off  in  the 
jacelt" 

"  Might  in  the  winter  ;  can't  now.  They'd  burn  that 
thatched  roof  and  you  too  in  no  time  ;  besides  I  must 
git  on  and  start  out  the  Comming's  outfit.  You  ain't  the 
only  man  that's  got  to  travel  out  of  this  valley  !  " 

"  All  right,  move  on,  Bill,"  says  the  young  English- 
man ;  "  there  are  plenty  of  horses  in  that  paddock,  to  keep 
Pablo  and  me  safe  from  Mr.  Indian." 

"  Don't  you  be  too  sure,  Willoughby  ! "  cries  Jones, 
turning  in  his  saddle.  "  You're  a  tenderfoot !  You  don't 
know  the  Apaches,  and  I  do.  Light  out  as  if  hell  was 
behind  you  ! " 

His  last  words  are  almost  lost  in  the  cloud  of  dust  that 
the  hoofs  of  his  mustang  raise,  as  he  shoots  away  to 
warn  other  settlers,  and  save  other  lives  that  day  in  the 
valley  of  the  San  Francisco. 

Left  to  himself  the  Englishman  takes  a  long  look  up 
the  valley  and  sees  nothing  that  need  cause  fear ;  the 
red  butte  shows  perhaps  a  little  more  pigeon-blood  in  its 
ruby,  for  the  sun  is  a  little  higher  in  the  heavens.  It  is 
three  miles  away,  but  such  is  the  wonderful  clearness  of 
the  mountain  atmosphere  it  looks  as  if  you  could  walk 
to  it  in  a  short  five  minutes. 

Away  to  the  west  the  Sierra  de  la  Petahaya  looks  very 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  35 

blue,  and  would  be  bright  as  sapphire  were  it  not  for  the 
heat  haze  that  comes  from  the  baked  mesa  in  front  of 
it ;  to  the  south  and  east  the  Burro  and  Finos  Altos 
ranges  loom  up ;  north  of  these  the  Black  range,  and 
behind  them  all  a  glimpse  of  the  main  chain  of  the  Mim- 
bres  mountains  have  a  similar  tint  as  they  melt  away  into 
the  dividing  range  whose  waters  flow  both  east  and  west, 
some  by  the  Rio  Grande  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  some  by 
the  Gila  and  the  Colorado  to  the  peaceful  waves  of  the 
Pacific.  For  this  valley  of  the  San  Francisco,  where 
Tom  Willoughby  has  located  his  cattle  ranch,  is  just  on 
the  border  line  of  New  Mexico  and  Arizona,  and  almost 
between  and  altogether  too  near  the  San  Carlos  on  the 
west  and  the  Hot  Springs  and  Mescalero  on  the  east ; 
reservations  where  the  American  government  nurtures 
the  Apache  all  winter,  when  game  is  scarce,  and  strength- 
ens his  muscles  on  rations  of  Western  flour  and  army 
bacon,  and  the  accursed  Indian  trader  makes  his  blood 
hot  for  slaughter  and  massacre  on  fire-brain  whiskey,  and 
sells  him  government  repeating  rifles  and  fixed  ammu- 
nition with  which  to  murder  ambushed  settlers  and  to 
shoot  United  States  pursuing  soldiers  ;  so  that  when  the 
spring-time  comes,  and  the  ponies  grow  strong  and  fat, 
he  is  ready  and  equipped  to  out  and  massacre,  which 
is  the  dominant  instinct  of  his  nature,  and  the  pervading 
joy  of  his  existence. 

So,  Nana  having  recruited  and  strengthened  his  band 
of  renegados  by  some  fifty  new  Indian  devils,  fat  from 
reservation  rations,  is  raiding  the  country,  leaving  only 
fire  and  blood  behind  him.  A  few  skeleton  troops  of 
United  States  cavalry  are  following,  scores  of  miles  away, 
striving  to  overtake  those  who  are  never  overtaken,  for 
the  Apache  seizes  new  horses  as  he  passes  on,  and  as 
soon  as  he  rides  one  pony  to  death  mounts  a  fresh  one. 
and  so  forward  to  new  fields  of  massacre,  outrage,  tor- 
ture, and  joy. 

These  things  are  pretty  well  known  to  the  young 
Englishman  in  the  eight  months  he  has  lived  here. 

Until  this  time,  however,  the  Indian  scare  that  he  has 
almost  grown  to  regard  as  some  fabulous  bogey  of  the 
border  has  never  been  brought  home  to  him,  the  valley 
of  the  San  Francisco  having  been  unusually  peaceful 
since  his  location  here;  Nana  and  most  of  the  renegade 


36  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

Apaches  having,  since  his  arrival,  been  operating  ovd 
the  Mexican  border. 

Still  he  remembers  having  ridden  past  the  grave  of 
Patrick  Cooney  just  twenty  miles  to  the  north  in  the 
Mogollon  range,  and  seen  upon  it  the  inscription 

"  Killed  by   Victoria's  Apaches, 

THE  PETS  OF  THE  GOVERNMENT  ;  " 

and  recollects  that  Cooney  was  slain  but  one  year  ago; 

and,  as  this  comes  home  to  him,  Tom  Willoughby  wastes 

but  little  time  in  preparations  for  his  departure. 

He  slips  hastily  into  his  jacel,  and  going  to  a  little  bed- 
room he  uses  as  his  own,  throws  open  a  trunk  and  takes 
a  packet  of  documents  and  letters  from  it.  These,  after 
a  hasty  inspection  to  see  that  they  are  all  right,  he  puts 
in  the  breast-pocket  of  his  rough  shooting-jacket.  Next 
he  takes  out  the  photographs  of  his  wife  and  child.  Kiss- 
ing them  with  warmest  love  as  he  places  them  in  an 
inner  pocket,  he  mutters,  "  Thank  God,  my  darlings  are 
not  here !  " 

As  he  utters  this,  his  actions  become  more  rapid,  and 
a  determined  look  comes  into  his  face  as  he  takes  down 
his  Winchester  and  tests  the  working  of  its  magazine  and 
lock,  buckles  on  his  Colt's  six-shooter,  and  fills  his  car- 
tridge-belt with  ammunition  ;  for  with  the  sight  of  the 
loved  faces  has  come  the  thought,  "  I  must  keep  my  life 
very  safe  and  sure  to-day  for  the  sake  of  wife  and  child." 

The  instant  he  is  armed,  Tom  Willoughby  buckles  on  a 
pair  of  Mexican  spurs,  slings  over  his  shoulder  the  usual 
field-glass  every  travelling  Britisher  carries,  and  hurries 
to  the  corral  that  he  has  just  before,  in  his  uncompro- 
mising English  way,  called  a  paddock  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  Bill  Jones.  There  he  finds  Pablo,  the  half-breed 
Mexican,  saddling  a  pony  in  a  way  that  shows  he  has 
heard  of  the  Apaches  also,  and  is  more  in  a  hurry  to  be 
off  than  his  master. 

Willoughby  takes  a  quick  look  at  what  the  man  is  do- 
ing  and  then  says  sharply  :  "  Pablo,  leave  your  saddle  on 
Possum.  Hitch  up  another  pony  for  yourself  !  " 

"  No  time.  Apache  too  near.  Possum  do  ;  he's  the 
quickest ! " 

"  Saddle  up  another  pony,  I  tell  you  ;  Pete's  due  from 
Lordsburgh  this  morning.  I'm  going  to  take  Possum 
with  me  ;  he  may  need  it  to  escape  with  himself." 


MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  37 

**  No  time.     Apache  too  near  !  * 

"  Saddle  up  ano Get  off  that  pony,  I  tell  you  '. 

QUICK  !  "  And  Tom  Willoughby,  leaving  his  own  hunter, 
which,  with  a  Briton's  love  for  his  own  island  produc- 
tions and  contempt  for  the  productions  of  the  rest  of  the 
world,  he  has  brought  with  him  from  England,  and  which 
he  is  even  now  saddling,  covers  the  Mexican  with  his 
six-shooter.  "  Do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to  leave  Pete 
unhorsed  at  such  a  time  ?  Get  off,  or  by  Heaven  I'll 
blow  your  cowardly  brains  out !  JUMP  ! " 

Thus  adjured,  Pablo,  after  a  nasty  Mexican  snarling 
"  Caramba  !  "  springs  off  Possum,  who  is  by  long  odds 
the  smartest  mustang  in  the  corral,  and  with  a  brown  face 
that  has  become  gray  with  pallor,  and  trembling  lips  that 
mutter,  "  Apache  too  near  !  "  begins  to  saddle  and  equip 
the  next  fleetest  pony  he  can  find. 

All  this  time  the  Englishman  has  been  hard  at  work, 
with  the  exception  of  the  moment  he  turned  from  his 
horse  to  persuade  Pablo  to  dismount,  and  in  another 
minute  or  so  has  his  hunter  ready  to  mount. 

Then  taking  a  hasty  look  at  strap  and  buckle,  for  lif ? 
and  death  may  hang  upon  the  breaking  of  a  girth,  h, 
similarly  inspects  the  accoutrements  of  Possum,  and  with 
the  halter  of  the  cowboy's  pony  in  his  hand,  Tom  Wil- 
loughby rides  out  of  the  gate  of  his  corral  on  his  race  for 
life  from  the  Apache. 

Pablo,  with  that  peculiar  aptitude  Mexicans  always 
have  for  handling  horse  furniture,  is  already  in  the  saddle 
and  making  a  cloud  of  dust  a  hundred  yards  in  advance 
of  him,  on  his  way  to  safety. 

Willoughby  gives  one  look  up  the  valley.  The  scene 
is  quiet  as  before,  but  just  coming  round  the  base  of  the 
red  butte  that  is  now  one  ruby  blaze  under  the  sun's  rays, 
he  can  see  half  a  dozen  horsemen  that  make  black  silhou- 
ettes upon  its  sides. 

They  are  the  advance  bucks  of  Nana's  band,  joyously 
coming  from  the  murder  of  some  miners  near  Mineral 
Creek,  on  their  track  of  blood  and  torture. 

Noting  these  figures,  the  Englishman  starts  his  hunter 
into  a  sharp  canter  down  the  valley  after  Pablo,  taking 
care  not  to  make  the  pace  too  fast  a  one,  for  he  is  alto- 
gether too  experienced  to  let  his  horse  pump  himself  out 
at  the  start  of  what  may  be  a  long  race.  So,  with  the 


38  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE, 

Apaches  but  three  miles  behind  him,  Tom  Willoughb} 
lopes  down  the  half-trail,  half-road,  with  Clifton  not 
more  than  twenty-five  miles  to  the  southwest  of  him, 
where  he  feels  sure  the  men  at  the  copper  mines  will  be 
able  to  drive  the  Indians  off. 

Two  hours  after  this,  with  his  horse  panting  under  him, 
he  is  where  he  should  turn  off  to  cross  the  San  Francisco 
to  Clifton — the  Apaches  but  a  mile  and  a  half  behind 
him. 

But,  even  as  he  turns  his  horse's  head  to  the  west,  the 
thought  comes  to  him  like  lightning  that  Pete  is  due  this 
morning  with  supplies  from  Lordsburgh,  and  must  now 
be  very  near  ;  that  in  this  almost  unsettled  country,  with 
ranches  twenty  miles  apart,  he  may  be  utterly  unwarned 
and  unaware  of  his  danger. 

As  this  idea  comes  home  to  him  Tom  Willoughby 
again  turns  his  hunter's  face  down  the  valley  and  still 
keeps  the  Lordsburgh  trail.  The  Apaches,  who  have 
seen  him,  have  increased  their  pace,  pulled  up  a  little, 
T,nd  are  now  but  a  mile  and  a  quarter  away. 

So  the  Englishman  gallops  on  ;  to  his  right  hand,  in 
its  canon,  among  its  willows  and  cotton-woods,  with  cool 
and  refreshing  gurgle,  the  San  Francisco  runs  nearly  due 
south ;  to  his  left  is  the  sun-baked  mesa,  ornamented  by 
a  few  sahuara  cacti  that  look  like  gigantic  candelabra. 
Among  them  here  and  there  can  be  seen  little  dust 
clouds,  each  one  circling  in  its  own  particular  minia- 
ture whirlwind,  while  farther  off  and  to  the  southeast 
rise  abruptly  from  the  mesa  Steeple  Rock  and  Half 
Dome,  the  advance  guard  of  the  Pinos  Altos  and  Burro 
ranges,  but  cut  off  from  them  by  the  head  waters  of  the 
Gila,  which  here  becomes  a  river  and  starts  for  its  long 
journey  through  the  mountains  of  Arizona  to  join  the 
Colorado,  and  with  it  redden  the  blue  waters  of  the  Gulf 
of  California. 

Over  this  scene  is  a  bright  blue  sky,  and  atmosphere 
so  clear  that  thirty  miles  would  look  as  ten,  did  not  the 
blazing  sun  make  a  heat  mist  that  seems  to  mirage 
everything,  for  even  as  he  rides  Tom  Willoughby  thinks 
there  is  a  cool,  deep  lake  to  the  south  of  him,  where  he 
knows  _^e  can  ride  with  burning,  dusty  hoofs  for  many  a 
mile  to  the  Gila  ford. 

1  he  Englishman,  however,  is  too  well  accustomed  to 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  39 

these  freaks  of  Western  nature  to  let  them  divert  his  mind 
for  a  moment  from  this  life  and  death  business  upon 
which  he  is  now  engaged,  and  he  rides  on  with  short 
stirrup  and  bent  knees,  in  British  cavalry  style,  feeling  all 
the  time  pretty  easy  about  the  matter.  Yorks  is  not 
over  twenty  three  or  four  miles  away,  and  the  stalwart 
widow  and  her  daughter  and  her  two  big  sons  and  their 
hired  men  will  stand  the  Apaches  off  even  without  his  and 
Pete's  Winchesters  to  help  them  hold  the  big  adobe. 

By  this  time  he  can  see  the  Indians  are  nearer  to  him, 
and  as  he  notes  this  it  requires  some  self-control  to  keep 
from  urging  his  horse  into  a  quicker  gallop,  though  look- 
ing at  his  mount  he  can  see  that  his  hunter  is  travelling 
well  within  himself  ;  his  breathing  is  unlabored,  and  his 
stride  low  and  long,  every  bit  of  the  beast's  strength  going 
toward  what  is  most  wanted  now — speed. 

Noting  this  Willoughby  smilingly  thinks  :  "  Wait  till  1 
let  you  out,  Major,  and  we'll  show  the  gentry  behind  us 
something  they  haven't  seen  in  this  part  of  the  world 
before — that  is,  how  an  English  thoroughbred  will  run 
away  from  a  Mexican  pony." 

Even  as  he  thinks  this,  he  remembers  that  the  horse  he 
is  leading  has  given  as  yet  no  pull  or  jerk  on  his  halter, 
and  looking  at  Possum  finds  him  loping  contentedly 
alongside  with  an  easier  stride,  and  snowing  less  wear 
and  tear  from  dust  and  heat,  than  even  his  hunter. 

This  looking  at  Pete's  horse  gets  him  to  thinking  of 
Pete  himself,  and  he  remembers  how  a  year  has  made  him 
and  a  cowboy  chums ;  and  rather  laughs  as  he  wonders 
what  his  fine  friends  in  England  would  say  to  his  com- 
radeship  with  one  of  these  Bedouins  of  the  Western 
ranches,  even  though  he  has  been  a  college  man.  But 
as  he  runs  over  the  various  adventures  the  American  and 
he  have  had  together  his  heart  gets  very  tender  to  his 
absent  chum,  and  he  is  glad  he  took  the  Lordsburgh  road, 
even  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life,  to  warn  him. 

From  these  reflections  he  is  hurriedly  aroused.  Pos- 
sum gives  a  sudden  jerk  at  the  halter,  and  tries  to  move 
off  to  the  right,  uttering  a  little  whinny  of  joy.  Turn- 
ing his  eyes  from  the  road  in  front  of  him,  down  which 
he  has  been  anxiously  gazing  in  search  of  his  coming 
cowboy,  to  the  direction  the  mustang's  head  is  pointed, 
Willoughby  sees,  with  a  start  of  surprise,  a  jerky  mud 


40  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

wagon  drawn  by  two  horses  just  coming  out  of  som« 
stunted  cotton-wood  which  fringe  the  bed  of  the  cafion  ot 
the  San  Francisco,  that  now  flows  upon  his  right,  some  two 
hundred  yards  distant.  Though  it  has  a  little  sun-topf 
apparently  a  very  recent  addition  to  it  from  the  white- 
ness of  its  canvas,  he  instantly  recognizes  the  wagon  in 
which  Pete  had  departed  for  Lordsburgh  some  few  days 
before.  The  cowboy  has  evidently  taken  advantage  of 
an  arroyo  going  down  into  the  canon  of  the  river  to 
give  his  team  a  drink. 

Turning  his  horse  he  leaves  the  trail,  gallops  at  full 
speed  toward  the  vehicle,  the  driver  of  which  seeing  him 
whips  his  hot  and  jaded  mustangs  into  a  lope. 

As  Willoughby  gets  within  call,  he  shouts  out : 
"  Quick,  Pete,  the  Apaches  are  only  a  mile  behind  ! 
Leave  the  team  ;  jump  on  Possum  and  ride  for  your 
life." 

At  his  cry,  though  still  a  hundred  yards  away,  he  sees 
a  sudden  commotion  in  the  wagon.  The  cowboy  says 
nothing,  omy  lashes  his  horses,  but  there  is  a  flutter  of 
woman's  garments  on  the  seat  beside  him. 

And  the  next  moment  the  sun  seems  to  grow  red  in  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  to  reel,  to  poor  Tom  Willoughby  ; 
for  as  the  jerky  dashes  alongside  of  him,  a  woman's 
voice  is  calling  out :  "  Tom  !  dear  one  !  husband  !  "  and 
a  little  girl  is  crying,  "  papa  !  "  and  tossing  kisses  to  him 
with  dimpled  hands,  and  he  sees  before  him  all  that  is 
most  dear  upon  this  earth,  the  wife  of  his  bosom  and  the 
child  of  his  heart,  that  he  had  thought  safe  from  danger 
and  death  in  far  away  old  England. 

For  a  moment  he  gazes  at  them  in  a  horrified  stupor, 
then  reels  in  his  saddle,  and  the  sweat  of  dazed  agony  is 
on  his  brow,  and  he  trembles  and  whispers  with  white 
iips,  "  The  Apaches  only  a  mile  away."  Next,  he  shrieks, 
K  My  God  !  Pete,  how  could  you  bring  these  helpless  ones 
HERE?" 

But  Pete  does  not  answer,  he  has  already  passed  on  to 
the  road  and  is  silently  but  savagely  lashing  his  horses 
into  a  run  that  carries  Willoughby's  wife  and  child  far  in 
advance  of  him,  though  both  of  them  wave  their  hands 
back  to  the  frantic  Englishman,  who  now  spurs  his  horse 
wildly  on  to  overtake  the  wagon. 

This  he  does  not  do  until  long  after  Pete  has  reached 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  41 

the  trail  and  turned  his  team  toward  Lordsburgh  and  the 
south,  in  a  long,  slashing  lope. 

So  they  all  race  on,  much  closer  together  now,  for  this 
delay  has  told  terribly,  and  the  Apaches  are  but  a  very 
short  three-quarters  of  a  mile  away. 

After  a  few  moments  the  Englishman  ranges  alongside. 

Then  the  American  for  the  first  time  speaks,  yelling  at 
him  in  disjointed  phrases,  broken  up  by  the  rattling  and 
jolting  of  the  wagon  as  it  flies  along.  "  I  brought  your 
wife  and  child  at  your  wife's  request — the  wires  said  In- 
dians a  hundred  miles  away — your  brother — ordered  me 
to!" 

"  My  brother  ?  Arthur  ?  HERE  ?  "  These  are  yells  of 
amazement  from  Willoughby. 

"Yes,  Tom.  He  brought  me  to  Lordsburgh.  You 
don't  think  those  men  in  the  dust  behind  '11  hurt  us?" 
cries  his  wife,  hysterically,  clutching  their  beautiful  little 
girl,  who  can't  understand  the  trouble,  and  waves  her 
little  hand  to  her  father,  and  breaks  his  heart  with  tossing 
kisses  as  he  rides  on,  dazed  and  desperate,  in  the  dust 
beside  them ;  for,  from  the  moment  he  has  heard  his 
brother's  name,  Tom  Willoughby  has  been  stupefied. 

But  as  he  rides,  the  sweat  of  agony  and  anxiety  on  his 
brow,  he  mutters  these  curious  words :  "  The  infernal 
Italian  villain,  he  has  heard  of  the  Indian  raid,  and  sent 
me  my  loved  ones  to  anchor  me  to  death  by  their  presence 
here.  He  wants  us  all  to  die — this  time." 

Thus  they  dash  on,  the  Apaches  gaining  little  by  little, 
until  after  going  a  short  mile,  Pete  slackens  his  pace  and 
calls  suddenly  out  :  "  We've  but  one  chance  !  " 

"  What's  that  ?  " 

"  Make  Comming's  ranch,  and  fight  'em  off !  " 

"  Couldn't  we  get  to  those  peaks  ?  "  says  the  English- 
man, pointing  to  the  left. 

"  Yes,  to  be  trailed  out  of  'em  and  butchered  to  a 
certainty." 

"  Can't  we  make  Yorks  ?  " 

"  Not  with  your  wife  and  child.  We  must  stop  at 
Comming's  ranch." 

"  Can  we  get  there  with  the  wagon  ?  " 

"  No,  the  team's  too  tired  !  We  must  go  on  horseback  ! 
You  take  your  wife  in  front  of  you  ;  your  horse  is  strong 
and  '11  carry  more  weight  I'll  take  the  child  with  me  on 


43  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE 

Possum."     And  Pete  indicates  the  mustang  that  Wil 
loughby  has  led  mechanically  for  the  past  ten  minutes. 

"  All  right !  "  mutters  the  Englishman,  hoarsely. 

"  Then  please  take  the  reins,  Mrs.  Willoughby,  and  keep 
driving  while  I  get  my  arms.  Every  minute  counts," 
says  the  cowboy.  And  while  the  English  lad)7,  with  pale 
face  and  compressed  lips,  but  determined  eyes,  flogs  the 
tired  horses  on,  Mr.  Peter  straps  his  Winchester  over  his 
back,  takes  a  look  at  his  six-shooter  belted  to  his  side, 
and  carefully  examines  his  cartridge-belt. 

This  done,  he  seizes  the  reins  again  and  pulls  the 
horses  sharply  up  ;  then  jumping  out,  lifts  both  lady  and 
child  to  the  ground.  Next,  with  one  vigorous,  athletic 
thrust,  he  has  placed  Agnes  Willoughby  in  her  husband's 
arms,  and,  calling  Possum,  in  another  moment  he  has 
swung  himself  into  the  saddle  with  the  child  in  front 
of  him.  Then,  ranging  alongside  of  the  Englishman,  he 
says  :  "  Give  your  little  girl  one  kiss.  She's  been  crying 
for  it  ever  since  she  saw  you  !  " 

Then,  perhaps  Willoughby  forgets  his  loved  ones' 
danger  in  his  loved  ones'  arms,  and  for  a  second  is 
happy ;  the  next  he  is  pelting  over  the  dusty  road,  fol- 
lowed by  the  cowboy,  and  making  straight  for  Comming's 
ranch,  on  the  lower  San  Francisco,  just  above  its  junction 
with  the  Gila — with  a  score  or  more  of  the  foremost 
Apaches  just  about  half  a  mile  behind. 

Two  or  three  of  these  bronzed  warriors  smile  a  dusky 
smile  under  the  vermilion  of  their  war-paint  as  they  see 
their  game  leave  the  wagon  ;  they  know  they  are  hard- 
pressed,  and  one  buck,  a  veteran  in  blood  and  torment, 
mutters  :  "  Scalp  sure  !  " 

While  another,  a  reservation  pet,  and  who  has  been 
taken  to  the  East  by  the  Indian  agent  to  acquire  the 
vices  of  civilization,  and  has  learned  a  little  better  Eng- 
lish, says  :  "  Why  white  man  no  leave  squaws  in  wagon 
for  Indian  ?  Heap  more  squaws  out  there  where  sun 
rises ! " 

But  talking  or  silent,  in  dust  or  sun,  these  tireless 
devils,  who  have  already  ridden  fifty  miles  this  burning 
day,  still  keep  their  staggering  ponies  to  their  unceasing 
lope,  or  as  one  horse  falls  exhausted  mount  another  from 
the  herd  of  captured  stock  they  lead  with  or  drive  before 
them — and  four  long  miles  still  lie  between  the  fugitives 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  43 

and  Comming's  ranch.  An  awful  distance  now,  for  the 
dust  and  weight  they  carry  are  beginning  to  tell  upon 
the  English  hunter  and  the  piebald  mustang,  Possum. 

The  thoroughbred  at  first  has  the  best  of  it,  and  moves 
away  from  the  cowboy's  pony  ;  but  the  former  is  made 
of  muscle,  and  the  latter  of  whalebone,  and  before  two 
miles  have  passed  the  blooded  horse  is  coming  back  to 
the  little  mustang  ;  the  Indians,  gaining  foot  by  foot  all 
the  time,  are  now  but  a  short  third  of  a  mile  behind. 

So  they  still  race  on,  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  crushing- 
the  dry  gamma  grass  and  small  running  cacti  into  the 
dusty  plain.  The  Englishman  with  his  arms  about  his 
wife,  whispering  words  of  love  to  her  ;  but  she  hardly 
answering,  save  by  now  and  again  a  silent  caress,  keeps 
her  mother's  eyes  turned  backward  in  anxious  glance 
upon  her  child,  who  is  clasped  to  the  cowboy's  heart ;  for 
Pete  rides  twenty  paces  to  the  rear,  and  a  little  to  one 
side  to  avoid  any  chance  of  collision  in  case  the  thorough- 
bred has  any  accident  from  gopher  or  prairie  dog  holes. 

All  the  time  he  is  doing  this,  Pete  is  telling  the  little 
girl  cute  stories  of  frontier  life,  striving  to  keep  the  child's 
thoughts  away  from  the  present,  as  the  burning  heat  has 
made  her  thirsty,  and  she  is  beginning  to  ask  for  water. 
In  this  he  succeeds  quite  well,  for  the  child  has  grown 
familiar  with  Mr.  Peter,  as  she  calls  him,  in  their  two 
days'  journey  from  Lordsburgh,  and  laughs  at  what  he 
says. 

Suddenly,  however,  she  cries  out,  "  Fire-crackers  be- 
hind us!  Mr.  Peter,  those  men  act  as  if  it  was  Guy 
Fawkes's  day.  And  what  is  that  comes  singing  so  sharp 
through  the  air,  almost  like  birds  ?  " 

"  Those  are  flying  grasshoppers,  Flossie  ;  but  sit  more 
in  front  of  me,"  says  Pete,  trying  to  shield  his  little 
charge  from  the  bullets,  and  feeling  rather  nervous  him- 
self, as  it  is  the  first  time  he  has  been  under  fire  ;  for  the 
Apaches  are  now  only  five  hundred  yards  away,  and  have 
opened  a  running  fusillade  as  they  gallop  along,  hoping 
by  some  chance  to  disable  or  kill  horse  or  man.  Of  the 
two  they  would  rather  hit  the  horse,  because  then  those 
it  carries  will  surely  be  their  prey,  and  perhaps  the  others 
standing  by  to  assist  may  also  fall  into  their  hands  alive, 
and  that  will  mean  the  additional  joy  of  torture. 

But  with  his  arms  clasped  lovingly  about  the  girl,  and 


44  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

two  great  tears  in  his  eyes,  for  Pete  has  got  to  thinking 
of  the  little  sister  he  has  in  far  away  Massachusetts,  he 
dashes  on  unhurt ;  and  now  Willoughby  gives  a  yell  of 
triumph,  Comming's  adobe  ranch  house  is  in  sight  but 
five  hundred  yards  ahead  of  them. 

But  as  this  happens,  out  flies  old  Comming  himself, 
mounted  on  a  mustang,  and  followed  by  a  half-breed 
boy,  and  the  two  disappear  in  a  cloud  of  dust  down  the 
road,  riding  like  two  streaks  for  Yorks  on  the  Gila.  For 
old  Comming  don't  care  to  fight  Apaches  if  horse-flesh'll 
keep  him  from  it. 

"  My  God,  if  we  could  make  Yorks  too  !  "  mutters  the 
Englishman ;  but  his  wife  is  almost  fainting  in  his  arms, 
and  he  knows  he  must  give  that  hope  up. 

Seeing  this  the  Apaches  drive  their  spurs  into  their 
ponies,  and  shoot,  if  not  quicker,  more  accurately,  for 
Pete  wipes  the  blood  from  his  forehead,  that  has  been 
grazed  by  a  passing  bullet,  and  the  Englishman's  horse 
gives  a  sudden  jump  as  his  flank  is  seared  by  a  United 
States  carbine-ball,  fired  by  a  reservation  Indian. 

But  this  only  makes  the  thoroughbred  fly  faster,  though 
the  mustang,  more  accustomed  to  the  heat  and  dust,  is  now 
his  leader.  So  Willoughby  and  Pete  race  up  to  Com- 
ming's lone  ranch  on  the  San  Francisco,  and  dash  into 
the  open  doorway  of  its  adobe  house  ;  Pete  thoughtfully 
hurrying  the  horses  also  within  its  walls,  though  Indian 
bullets  patter  all  about  him  as  he  barricades  the  entrance. 

Here,  gazing  around,they  find  that  all  its  occupants  are 
fled,  and  they  must  look  only  to  themselves  this  day  to 
save  from  the  clutches  of  the  Apache,  who  spares  neither 
sex  nor  age,  this  delicate  woman  and  tender  child  that 
Providence  has  given  to  their  keeping. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE  LONE  RANCH  BY  THE  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

THEY  are  no  sooner  all  inside  than  Pete  steps  quickly 
to  one  of  the  little  openings  that  serve  for  windows  to  the 
room,  and  carefully  resting  the  muzzle  of  his  Winchester 


MISS  NOBODY  OP  NOWHERE.  45 

apon  the  sill  so  that  no  protruding  portion  of  his  gun  shall 
give  warning,  pumps  three  or  four  shots  right  into  the 
advancing  Apaches,  who  have  carelessly  come  yelling  on, 
hoping  to  carry  the  place  with  a  rush  before  the  fugitives 
are  ready  for  them. 

They  are  but  two  hundred  yards  away,  and  firing  with 
a  rest  Mr.  Peter's  aim  is  pretty  true.  He  says  grimly, 
"  That'll  keep  those  beasts  back  for  a  minute  ! "  Then 
he  cries  suddenly,  "  Look  out  for  this  side  of  the  house  ! " 
and  bolts  into  another  room,  that  has  a  door  and  windows 
opening  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  is  just  in  tune. 

A  few  Indians  are  coming  as  fast  as  ponies  can  bring 
them  for  the  open  door,  when  his  Winchester  cracks. 
The  leader's  horse  is  shot  under  him,  the  others  turn 
back,  while  the  dismounted  man,  who  is  a  wary  old 
warrior,  makes  a  desperate  effort  to  gain  a  little  adobe 
storehouse  some  hundred  yards  to  the  west,  under  cover 
of  which  he  will  be  a  most  unpleasantly  near  neighbor. 
But  his  Yankee  blood  growing  cooler  as  the  fight  grows 
hotter,  Mr.  Peter,  taking  a  rest  and  a  careful  aim,  con- 
trives to  drop  him  just  as  he  is  on  the  threshold,  where 
he  falls,  his  head  upon  the  floor  inside,  his  legs,  caught  by 
the  knees,  drooping  over  the  handle  of  an  old  plough 
which  stands  beside  the  door. 

Checked  in  their  first  rush,  the  Apaches  get  out  of 
short  range.  Then  Pete  barricades  the  door  and  steps 
back  to  the  other  room  to  find  the  captain  using  his  gun 
at  the  front  entrance. 

To  him  the  Englishman  calls  out,  with  a  little  savage 
laugh,  "  What  luck  on  your  side  of  the  house  ?" 

"Pretty  fair,"  returns  Pete.  ""I've  sent  one  of  them  to 
kingdom  come.  We'll  have  a  little  rest  now." 

"  Not  a  long  one,  I'm  afraid,"  mutters  Wilioughby,  with 
a  choked-down  sigh,  looking  at  his  wife  and  child  crouched 
up  together  in  a  corner. 

But  here  in  the  confusion,  for  their  shots  have  filled 
the  room  with  smoke,  and  the  two  horses,  frightened  by 
the  noise,  are  very  restless,  comes  a  quiet,  woman's  voice. 
The  cowboy  hears  Agnes  Wilioughby  say,  "  Let  me  bind 
up  your  wound,  Mr.  Peter,"  and  looking  down  sees  a 
".ittle  crimson  stream  running  from  below  his  knee  down 
his  leather  leggings. 

M  It's  only  a  scratch.     I  don't  know  when  1  got  it  '  * 


46  MISS  NOBODY  CMP  NOWHEKXr 

he  says  with  a  slight  laugh ;  "  but  I'm  very,  very  mu^ 
obliged  to  you." 

"  Wounded  ! "  cries  Willoughby,  following  Pete's 
glance.  "  Thank  God,  there's  no  bone  broken  !  " 

"  Just  keep  an  eye  on  the  back  door,  Captain.  Those 
brutes  may  try  to  get  in  again  ;  I'll  be  with  you  in  a 
moment."  And  the  Englishman  doing  so,  the  cowboy 
submits  his  wound  to  the  ministering  hands  of  the  Eng- 
lish lady. 

As  she  lightly  and  quietly  binds  up  the  hurt,  Mr.  Peter 
feels  himself  tremble  under  her  fingers.  Agnes  Wi!- 
loughby  is  saying  a  mother's  prayer  to  him,  for  she  is 
whispering :  "  Whatever  happens  to  me  this  woful  day. 
try,  try,  and  save  my  little  Flossie.  Promise,  dear  Mr. 
Peter,  promise  in  the  name  of  your  own  mother." 

For  answer  Peter  simply  grips  her  delicate  hand  till 
she  almost  winces,  and  mutters :  "  For  my  mother's 
sake ! " 

Then  he  and  Captain  Willoughby  take  a  short  but 
careful  survey  of  Comming's  ranch  house  to  determine 
its  capabilities  for  offence  and  defence. 

The  first  thing  the  cowboy  looks  at  is  the  roof ;  this 
he  is  happy  to  find  is  made  of  Mexican  tiles,  roughly 
baked  red  and  dry  from  Gila  river  clay.  These  are,  of 
course,  fire-proof ;  consequently  they  are  safe  from  blazing 
arrows. 

The  house  proper  is  divided  into  two  rooms,  each  hav- 
ing a  door  opening  on  to  opposite  sides  of  the  structure, 
the  one  by  which  they  entered  facing  toward  the  trail ; 
the  other  leading  from  an  apartment  that  has  been  used 
as  a  kitchen,  and  giving  access  to  a  path  that  runs  to  the 
'ittle  adobe  storehouse  some  hundred  yards  away,  and, 
after  passing  it,  is  continued  to  the  carton  of  the  San  Fran- 
cisco River,  that  flows  peacefully  among  its  willows  and 
cotton-woods  to  meet  the  Gila,  half  a  mile  farther  to  the 
south. 

As  they  make  their  examination  of  the  ranch  house 
there  is  one  great  advantage  that  strikes  both  Captain 
Willoughby  and  Pete  at  the  same  time  ;  that  is,  the 
absence  of  all  cover  near  it  by  which  their  enemies  can 
approach  unseen  to  make  any  sudden  assault.  Wich  the 
exception  of  the  storehouse  just  mentioned  and  an 
tdobe  corral  some  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  the  mesa  jit 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  4| 

bare  of  everything  for  five  hundred  yards  but  gramma 
grasses,  soap  weed,  and  small  cacti,  that  would  hardly 
give  hiding  to  a  jack-rabbit.  A  few  century-plants,  or 
mescals  as  the  Mexicans  call  them,  are  scattered  about 
but  none  near  enough  to  the  house  to  give  its  defenders 
any  uneasiness. 

This  fact  seems  also  to  have  struck  the  Apaches,  who 
are  now  holding  counsel,  sheltered  by  the  adobe  walls  of- 
the  corral. 

Though  they  pause  to  deliberate,  they  have  no  inten* 
tion  of  abandoning  the  pursuit  of  these  scalps  they  already 
consider  theirs ;  for  these  dusky  demons  will  conduct 
their  raid  perhaps  even  more  remorselessly  than  in  the 
days  when  they  had  only  Mexican  haciendas  and  farms  to 
harry,  and  Mexican  peons  and  herders  to  slay  and  tor- 
ture  ;  before  the  whistle  of  the  locomotive  showed  them 
the  happy  days  of  burning  ranches  and  scalping  settlers 
were  coming  to  an  end. 

Perhaps  it  is  because  they  know  this  raid  must  be  one 
of  the  last  of  their  old-time  pleasures,  that  they  will  be 
as  cruel  and  relentless  as  of  yore — to  show  they  are  true 
descendants  of  Magnus  Colorado  and  Cochise,  these 
dusky  children  of  desert  mountains  and  sun-dried  plains, 
who  can  live  and  fatten  on  the  baked  leaves  of  the  century 
plant,  acorns,  and  tule  roots ;  who  can  travel  on  horseback 
across  the  plain,  or  on  foot  over  the  precipice  and  moun- 
tain trail,  a  hundred  miles  in  the  twenty-four  hours,  and 
then  perhaps,  only  tightening  *.he  belt  to  replace  food  that 
is  unattainable,  repeat  the  journey  in  pursuit  of  game  or 
plunder ;  the  only  beings  who  could  exist  as  savages  in 
the  land  in  which  they  have  been  nurtured  and  which  they 
love  even  as  they  do  murder  and  torture  and  blood. 

On  the  trail  and  in  sight  of  their  prey,  these  blocd- 
hounds  will  never  leave  it  till  they  worry  it  to  death. 

This  is  perfectly  well  known  to  Pete,  and  is  even  quite 
thoroughly  believed  in  by  Captain  Willoughby.  So  the 
two  make  what  preparations  they  can  to  meet  the  storm 
that  will  soon  burst  upon  them. 

d  They  immediately  drive  the  two  horses  into  the  room 
that  has  been  used  as  a  kitchen,  for  the  beasts  are  now  so 
restive  from  fright  and  thirst  that  their  frenzied  move- 
ments endanger  Mrs.  Willougbby  and  the  little  girl. 

Then  Pete  suggests  that  th»  captain  station  himself  in 


*£  MISS   NOBODY   OF   HOWHEBK. 

the  room  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  and  by  his  fire  keep 
the  Apaches  back  on  the  side  that  faces  the  trail  and  corn- 
mands  the  northern  end  of  the  house.  He  himself  wili 
take  care  of  the  southern  end  of  the  house  and  the  side 
facing  the  river,  for  here  he  expects  the  chief  eftorte  of 
their  foes  will  be  made,  as  the  only  cover  that  can  b* 
of  service  to  them  is  on  this  side,  viz.,  the  little  adobt 
house  used  for  the  storage  of  farming  implements  and 
mining  tools ;  for  old  Comming,  the  fugitive  owner  oi 
the  place,  had  been  a  ranchman,  but  becoming  imbuec 
with  the  local  mining  mania  that  had  been  brought  about 
fjy  the  rich  argentiferous  discoveries  at  Silver  City,  he 
had  abandoned  agriculture  and  taken  to  prospecting  the 
neighboring  mountain  ranges. 

Ail  this  is  easily  apparent  to  Pete.  He  can  see  that 
the  irrigating  ditches  that  run  from  the  river  almost  to 
the  door  of  the  house  are  dry  and  have  not  been  lately 
flooded  ;  while  piled  against  the  old  plough  that  stands 
near  the  entrance  to  the  storehouse  are  a  number  of 
picks,  drills,  sledges,  and  other  mining  implements. 

During  the  time  Pete  is  making  this  inspection,  both 
he  and  the  captain  are  nailing  up  at  the  windows  slats 
that  they  wrench  from  the  deal  table  of  the  cabin,  so 
as  to  give  but  little  room  for  the  entry  of  bullets  and  yet 
leave  space  enough  to  shoot  through. 

This  closing  up  of  the  openings  to  the  house  stops 
nearly  all  circulation  of  air  and  makes  the  place  intoler- 
ably close  and  hot  under  the  blazing  Arizona  sun  ;  and 
now  the  little  girl,  who  has  hardly  spoken  aloud  since 
.mtering  the  cabin,  but  has  looked!  on  in  a  kind  of  dazed 
infantile  wonder,  says  in  the  confident,  trusting  tones  of 
childhood,  "  Mamma,  can't  I  have  a  drink,  I'm  so  very 
Jiirsty  ? " 

-4  Of  course  you  can,  darling,"  answers  Mrs.Willoughby 
and  turning  to  the  American  she  says,  "  Mr.  Peter,  won't 
you  show  me  where  to  get  it  ? — I'm  thirsty  myself." 

But  Mr.  Peter  is  already  in  the  kitchen  looking  with  a 
serious  face  at  the  water  cask,  which  is  empty ;  Comming 
and  hiS  man,  before  they  had  departed,  apparently  having 
filed  their  canteens  with  the  last  liquid  in  it. 

A  moment  after  he  returns  and  says  quietly,  "  There's 
not  a  drop  of  water  in  the  house.  This  has  been  such  a 
ti«il-mell  affair  that  I  never  thought  of  it  before  ;  anyway 


MISS  NOBODY  OP   NOW  HER*.  49 

I  could  not  have  got  any,  as  old  Comming  has  let  hit 
Irrigation  ditches  run  dry." 

At  this  the  captain,  who  has  been  at  one  of  the  win- 
dows watching  the  Apaches,  who  are  apparently  about 
to  make  a  move  of  some  kind,  cries,  "  No  water ! 
What'll  become  of  all  of  us  without  it  on  such  a  day  as 
this  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  affect  us  vitally,"  answers  Pete, 
**  We'll  have  plenty  of  water  in  a  few  hours  from  now,  or 
else  we  won't  need  any — these  Apaches  won't  devote  a 
great  while  to  us.  Hatch's  cavalry  can't  be  many  miles 
behind,  and  the  miners  at  Silver  City  must  be  moving 
soon. 

"  It  doesn't  make  such  difference  to  me,"  mutters  the 
English  lady,  with  a  pale  but  determined  face,  *'  only  "— 
here  her  lips  begin  to  quiver,  "  only  it  will  be  so  bard  for 
my  poor  little  Flossie." 

Then  with  tears  in  her  eyes  she  bends  down  and  ca- 
resses the  child,  who  looks  at  her  mother  and  says, 
"  Don't  cry,  mamma  dear,  I'll  be  brave  like  papa  and  you 
and  Mr.  Peter." 

At  this,  Pete's  throat,  which  was  dry  and  parched  be- 
fore, gets  a  big  lump  in  it,  and  he  turns  away  into  the 
kitchen  to  do  v/hat  he  can  to  keep  the  brave  little  girl 
and  her  mother  safe  from  Apache  hands  this  day. 

But  sentiment  now  gives  way  to  action,  and  he  calls 
out  to  Willoughby  to  look  to  his  side  of  the  adobe,  for  the 
Indians  are  beginning  to  move. 

They  divide  into  two  parties,  one  band,  much  the  more 
numerous,  coming  from  the  shelter  of  the  corral  out 
upon  the  open  plain  on  Willoughby's  side  of  the  ranch 
house.  These  riding  quickly  about  at  long  range  give 
little  opportunity  to  the  Englishman  for  effective  shoot- 
ing, though  they  shower  the  house  with  bullets  that 
knock  out  many  a  chunk  of  adobe. 

The  other  party  of  some  five  veteran  bucks  ride  into 
the  canon  of  the  San  Francisco  and  disappear  under  its 
bank  among  its  willows. 

Pretty  well  satisfied  that  the  long-range  attack  upon 
the  opposite  side  of  the  house  is  only  a  feint,  Pete  pays 
little  attention  to  it,  but  keeps  his  eyes  upon  the  willowj 
and  cotton-woods  on  the  banks  of  the  San  Francisco. 

He  has  looked  and  looked  for  nearly  fifteen  minutes, 


$O  MISS  NOBODY  OF  NOWHERE. 

when  a  sudden  and  unexpected  bullet  sings  through  the 
air  and  cuts  from  his  head  a  lock  of  hair. 

As  he  falls  backward  astonished,  a  yell  of  triumph 
comes  to  him  from  the  little  storehouse  only  a  hundred 
yards  away,  and  he  knows  that  the  Apaches  have  tricked 
him  at  the  very  opening  of  the  fight,  for  by  leaving  theii 
horses  in  the  willows  of  the  San  Francisco,  travelling 
down  under  its  bank  and  then  transferring  themselves  to 
Comming's  largest  irrigation  ditch  that  runs  behind  the 
adobe  storehouse,  five  or  six  of  them  have  got  posses- 
sion of  this  point  of  vantage  without  the  loss  of  a  man  ; 
a  part  of  the  proceeding  which  pleases  the  Apache 
greatly,  as  he  is  a  very  careful  calculator  of  the  price  he 
pays  for  anything — even  scalps. 

They  have  slipped  round  the  adobe  and  inside  its  pro* 
tecting  walls  so  rapidly  that  they  have  not  had  time  to 
remove  the  dead  body  of  their  comrade  killed  in  their 
first  charge,  and  he  still  lies  in  the  same  position  in 
which  Pete  dropped  him,  his  head  inside  the  house  and 
his  legs  over  the  handle  of  the  old  plough  outside. 

So  they  face  each  other,  the  Indians,  whom  Pete  now 
counts  and  reckons  to  be  five,  not  including  the  dead 
one  of  the  former  encounter,  sheltered  by  the  storehouse, 
and  the  cowboy  behind  the  walls  of  the  adobe. 

Then  the  Apaches  try  to  pick  him  off  by  close  shoot- 
ing, and  the  American  strives  to  do  the  same  to  them, 
also  keeping  a  sharp  eye  that  they  do  not  charge  and 
force  the  door  of  the  ranch  house,  which  has  no  very 
secure  fastening. 

Elated  by  the  success  of  their  comrades  on  Pete's  side 
of  the  cabin,  this  is  exactly  what  the  Apaches  are  now 
trying  to  do  upon  the  front,  defended  by  the  Englishman. 
Pete  can  hear  the  volleys  poured  in  at  close  range,  and 
the  reports  of  Willoughby's  Winchester  as  he  turns  loose 
its  magazine  upon  them. 

The  rooms  get  full  of  smoke,  and  the  house,  close  and 
hot  before,  becomes  a  kind  of  hades.  The  horses  are 
panic-stricken  and  kicking  things  about  in  the  kitchen, 
and  over  their  noise  the  little  girl's  voice  comes  to  him, 
crying  to  her  mother  for  a  drop  of  water,  for  now  to  the 
whole  party  comes  the  suffering  of  parched  throats  and 
burning  thirst. 

And  so  the  fight  goes  on. 


MISS  NOBODY   OF  NOWHERE.  Jl 

After  having  tested  several  times,  by  feints  that  draw 
the  American's  fire,  whether  he  has  been  called  away  by 
the  attack  of  the  other  side  of  the  adobe,  the  Apaches 
in  the  storehouse,  finding  Pete  always  at  his  post,  try 
another  device. 

They  shoot  very  rapidly  and  closely  at  him  ;  in  fact, 
so  continuously  that  the  cowboy  suspects  some  new  ruse, 
for  by  this  time  he  has  in  him  the  same  dogged  spirit  but 
quick  mind  that  pulled  the  football  game  out  of  the  mire 
at  Boston,  and  sent  the  blue  above  the  crimson  only 
three  short  years  before,  though  the  work  is  much  dif- 
ferent and  the  stakes  much  higher  in  this  game  of  the 
frontier. 

Being  suspicious,  instead  of  shooting  back  Pete  uses 
his  eyes  more  sharply,  and  is  not  caught  napping  a  second 
time.  He  sees  that  one  of  the  Indians,  apparently  hav- 
ing gotten  out  of  the  back  of  the  storehouse,  has  crawled 
into  the  irrigation  ditch,  and  partly  sheltered  from  his 
fire  and  concealed  from  his  eye,  is  working  his  way  to- 
ward the  ranch  house,  hoping  to  get  so  close  under  its 
walls  that  he  will  be  safe  from  any  bullet  from  within. 

Taking  things  quietly,  the  cowboy  lets  this  buck  crawl 
along  his  ditch  until  part  of  him  is  exposed  to  a  slanting, 
downward  fire,  and  then,  mounting  upon  a  cracker  box 
that  has  done  duty  for  the  absent  Comming  as  a  chair, 
he  contrives  to  put  a  bullet  obliquely  into  the  creeping 
savage  that  stops  his  advance. 

With  a  little  start  of  pain,  his  enemy  wriggles  quickly 
back  behind  the  sheltering  storehouse,  getting  there 
without  being  touched  again,  though  Pete  tries  another 
snap  shot  at  him.  In  his  hurry,  however,  he  has  exposed 
himself  a  little,  and  when  he  jumps  from  his  cracker  box 
to  the  floor  his  cheek  is  torn  open  by  a  bullet  from  the 
covering  savages. 

This  is  all  forgotten  in  another  moment  as  the  captain 
yslls,  "  The  brutes  are  running  away,  SURE  !  Come  in 
and  look  at  them,  Peter." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  returns  the  cowboy, "  I've  some  here 
who  haven't  left  yet,"  for  he  fears  stratagem  in  this  sud- 
den stampede. 

But  even  as  he  speaks  he  sees  the  warriors  he  is  watch- 
ing, in  obedience  to  some  signal,  moving  cautiously  out 
of  the  back  of  the  storehouse  and  t&Hng  such  care  t* 


52  HISS  NOBODY   OF    NOW  HIRE. 

keep  Jt  between  themselves  and  his  rifle  that  he  gets  no 
chance  for  a  fair  shot,  a  difficult  matter  under  the  circum- 
stances, as  the  wounded  Indian  requires  the  support  of 
two  of  his  fellows.  This  apparently  gives  them  so  much 
trouble  that  they  make  no  disposition  of  the  body  of  the 
one  killed  in  the  first  encounter,  who  remains,  as  when 
first  he  fell  to  the  crack  of  Pete's  rifle,  his  feet  hanging 
over  the  old  plough  outside. 

As  his  opponents  crawl  away  Pete  counts  them,  to  be 
sure  they  have  all  gone,  and  makes  their  number  five,  the 
same  as  originally  entered  the  storehouse ;  then  he  watches 
carefully  until  he  sees  them  reappear,  mounted,  among 
the  willows  and  cotton-woods  coming  out  of  the  cafion  of 
the  San  Francisco,  and  still  finding  five,  though  the 
wounded  one  has  to  be  held  on  his  horse,  he  gives  a  sigh 
of  relief,  for  he  knows  the  Indians  have  left  none  of  their 
number  concealed  by  the  trees  or  the  river  bank. 

Then  he  goes  into  the  next  room  and  finds  the  captain 
in  his  shirt  sleeves,  the  heat  having  caused  him  to  throw 
off  his  shooting  jacket.  The  Englishman  is  black  with 
powder  smoke,  but  very  happy,  as  is  the  lady  and  the 
child. 

The  little  one  says,  u  We  can  get  some  water  now,  Mr. 
Peter,  those  bad  men  have  gone  away. "  And  Mrs.  Wil- 
loughby  cries,  "  God  bless  you  !  "  With  this  they  all  get 
to  shaking  hands  together,  for  this  day's  danger  has  made 
them  like  old  friends. 

After  a  moment  the  captain  says  to  Pete,  who  has  been 
using  his  big  field-glass  looking  after  their  retreating 
enemies,  "  What  made  the  brutes  move  off  so  suddenly  ? " 

"  That !  "  remarks  the  cowboy,  pointing  to  three  col- 
umns of  bluish-white  smoke  rising  into  the  clear  air  fron, 
the  distant  Mogollon  Mountains. 

"  Ah,  smoke  signals  from  their  scouts — Hatch's  cav 
airy  I  No  chance  of  the  scoundrels  coming  back  now  !  " 
cries  Willoughby,  and  he  proposes  immediately  to  go 
down  to  the  river  for  water. 

"  Don't  take  probability  for  fact,"  returns  Pete.  "  We 
must  not  leave  this  place  too  soon." 

"  Anyway,  your  Yankee  prudence  won't  object  to  this," 
laughs  the  Englishman,  and  he  throws  open  the  two  doom 
of  the  house.  "  A  little  fresh  air  won't  be  fatal  even  H 
the  Indians  are. " 


MISS   NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE.  53 

This  is  a  tremendous  relief,  for  the  place  has  been  sti- 
fling, the  heat  of  the  day  now  being  at  its  height,  for  it  i* 
nearly  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

As  the  smoke  drifts  out  and  the  light  comes  in,  Mrs. 
Willoughby  cries  out  suddenly,  "  Why,  you're  wounded, 
Tom  !  "  and  examines  her  husband's  arm  with  anxious 
eyes. 

But  he  laughs.  "  What's  a  scratch  to  a  man  as  happy 
as  I  ?  Half  a  yard  of  old  shirt  to  tie  it  up  will  do  as 
well  as  a  dozen  doctors  !  " 

This  doesn't  suit  his  wife,  who  calls  out  for  water  with 
which  to  bathe  it,  and  insists  the  member  be  placed  in  a 
sling,  which  she  does  with  a  woman's  deftness,  the  cap- 
tain kissing  her  and  calling  her  his  nurse  sent  by  Heaven 
from  across  the  sea  ,  for  this  big  English  ranchman  has 
been  so  racked  with  anxiety  for  his  loved  ones,  that  now 
the  strain  is  over  he  hardly  knows  how  to  keep  himself 
from  blubbering  like  a  boy,  a  performance  which  would 
do  him  good,  and  of  which  he  need  by  no  means  be 
ashamed. 

A  moment  after  a  sudden  idea  seems  to  come  to  him, 
for  his  face  grows  stern  and  his  manner  formal  as  he 
says :  "  What  made  you  bring  a  woman  and  child  into 
such  danger,  Mr.  Peter  ?  There  is  a  telegraph  office  at 
Lordsburgh — the  wires  must  have  told  of  this  Apache 
raid." 

Before  Pete  can  answer  Mrs.  Willoughby  speaks  for 
him. 

"  Tom,"  she  says,  "  Mr.  Peter  is  not  to  blame  for  any 
danger  that  has  come  to  me  to-day.  You  yourself  wrote 
me  to  join  you  here." 

"Yes,  but  afterward  I  telegraphed  you  to  remain  in 
England." 

"  I  never  received  it ;  and  hearing  that  I  was  coming, 
your  brother  Arthur " 

"  Yes,  Arthur,  what  of  him  ?  "  breaks  in  the  captain^ 
suspiciously. 

"  Arthur  said  he  would  accompany  Florence  and  me, 
as  he  had  some  mining  interests  near  by — in  Colorado,  I 
think." 

"  Mining  interests  in  Colorado  ?  I  never  heard  of 
them,"  cries  Willoughby,  suspiciously. 

"  Well,  he  came  with  us.  and  took  good  c&re  of  m  at 


54  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

far  as  Lordsburgh,  where  Mr.  Peter  was  pointed  out  to 
us  as  being  in  your  employ  and  about  to  return  to  you* 
ranch  ;  and  I  asked  him  to  bring  me  to  you,  and  he  re- 
fused, saying  there  was  a  rumor  of  an  Indian  outbreak — < 
and  then " 

"Then,"  Pete  breaks  in,  "your  brother  instructed  me 
to  bring  your  wife  to  you,  and  I  refused  until  there  was 
further  news  of  Nana's  whereabouts — he  had  last  been 
heard  of  in  the  San  Mateo  mountains — and  we  all  went 
to  the  telegraph  office  for  the  latest  news.  Mr.  Arthur 
went  in  ;  your  wife  and  child  and  I  remained  outside  in 
the  wagon.  We  had  not  been  there  five  minutes  when 
your  brother  came  out  and  told  me  to  drive  off  at  once, 
everything  was  all  right.  A  despatch  had  just  arrived, 
stating  that  the  Apaches  had  gone  east,  crossing  the  Rio 
Grande.  And  so  I  started  out." 

"  You  are  sure  a  despatch  came  ? " 

"  Certain  !  I  heard  the  click  of  the  instrument  as  I  sat 
waiting." 

"  Why  didn't  Arthur  come  with  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  how  suspicious  you  are,"  chimes  in  Mrs.  Willough 
by.     <k  There  wasn't  room  in  the  wagon." 

Then  the  captain  startles  both  of  them,  for  he  cries . 
"  I  may  be  suspicious,  but  you  don't  know  as  I  do  that  I 
have  a  brother  who  has  a  brain  as  bright  as  a  Machia- 
velli,  and  a  heart  as  black  as  one  of  those  brutes  out 
there,"  and  he  points  to  the  retreating  Apaches.  "  If  I 
don't  find  that  lying  telegram  at  Lordsburgh,  I'll " 

But  any  further  threat  is  cut  short  by  Mrs.  Willoughby 
saying  suddenly  :  "  Where's  Flossie  ?  " 

Their  conversation  has  been  so  exciting  that  the  child 
has  left  the  room  unnoticed.  The  captain  and  his  wife 
spring  to  the  door  opening  on  the  trail. 

Pete  steps  into  the  kitchen,  and  looking  out  sees  the 
little  maiden  with  a  big  tin  pail  in  her  hand,  tripping 
across  old  Comming's  neglected  garden  toward  the 
storehouse  on  her  way  to  the  river.  Looking  over  her 
shoulder  she  smiles  back  at  him,  and  calls  :  "  Going 
to  get  water  for  papa  and  mamma. " 

The  cowboy  is  just  running  after  her  to  help  her,  for 
by  this  time  all  thought  of  immediate  danger  has  left 
him,  when  suddenly  his  heart  gives  a  great  jump. 
Chancing  to  glance  at  the  storehouse,  HE  SEES  THAT 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  55 

THE    BODY    OF    THE    DEAD    INDIAN    HAS     MYSTERIOUSLY 
DISAPPEARED. 

Then  forcing  himself  to  calmness,  for  by  this  time 
Agnes  Willoughby  stands  beside  him,  he  calls  out; 
"  Flossie,  play  hide-and-seek.  Drop  in  the  old  ditch,  try 
if  I  can  find  you  there  ! "  hoping  the  drain  will  be  deep 
enough  to  shield  the  child  from  Apache  bullets.  At 
the  same  moment  he  draws  the  mother  from  the  open 
door,  for  now  he  knows  that  the  WOUNDED  Indian  as- 
sisted off  by  his  fellows  was  the  DEAD  one,  and  a  live 
demon,  left  in  his  place,  is  now  concealed  in  the  store- 
house. 

The  little  girl  cries  laughingly:  "I'll  play  with  you 
when  I  come  back,  Mr.  Peter." 

The  mother  says  anxiously  :  "  Why  do  you  want  Flos- 
sie to  hide  ? " 

Then  Pete  makes  a  mistake,  for  which  he  never 
in  his  whole  life  forgives  himself ;  he  forgets  the  self- 
sacrifice  of  mother's  love  that  drives  away  all  fear — even 
that  of  death. 

As  he  mechanically  handles  his  rifle,  he  whispers: 
"  Quiet !  for  your  child's  sake.  There's  a  live  Indian  in 
that  little  adobe,"  and  the  tragedy  comes  upon  them. 

As  he  speaks,  Agnes  Willoughby,  with  a  cry  of  anxious 
love,  flies  through  the  open  door,  and  in  a  moment  has 
reached  her  child  and  is  dragging  her  back  ;  but  even  as 
she  does  so,  a  stream  of  smoke  and  crack  of  rifle  come 
from  the  storehouse.  And  at  this  sound  the  gentle 
English  lady,  who  had  never  suffered  blow  before,  with 
eyes  staring  as  if  astonished,  claps  her  hand  to  her  heart 
and  falls  dead. 

Pete  has  bounded  after  her,  and  would  die  beside  her  ; 
but  now  an  insane  man,  one  wounded  arm  in  a  sling,  the 
other  holding  a  revolver,  and  crying  hoarse  cries  of 
despair,  flies  out  of  the  open  door  of  the  ranch  house 
straight  for  the  ambushed  Indian  ;  for  Tom  Willoughby 
has  seen  his  wife  die,  and  now  only  wishes  to  live  long 
enough  to  avenge  her. 

Such  rage  defeats  itself,  and  as  his  revolver  discharges 
a  harmless  bullet,  the  repeating-rifle  in  the  old  store 
house  speaks  again,  and,  moaning  out  :  '•  Save  my  baby, 
Pete  !  "  the  Englishman  falls  dead  over  the  body  of  his 
wife. 


56  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

The  next  bullet  will  be  for  the  cowboy,  and  as  he  drags 
the  child  back  to  the  adobe,  he  expects  it ;  but  it  does 
not  come,  and  somehow  Pete  gets  his  charge  to  shelter, 
saved  by  a  jammed  shell  in  the  Indian's  breech-loader. 

Then  for  a  second  he  stands,  dazed  and  stupid — the 
horror  has  come  about  so  quickly. 

A  minute  ago  they  were  all  talking  in  that  room  ;  now 
a  dead  man  and  woman  lying  there  among  old  Com- 
ming's  dried-up  melon  vines,  and  in  his  arms  an  orphan 
whom  he  has  sworn,  by  the  name  of  his  own  mother,  to 
protect  and  save ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   BOX    CASfON    OF   THE   GILA. 

THIS  thought  puts  the  cowboy's  senses  into  him  again 
in  a  hurry.  Anything  to  save  the  life  of  this  little  girl 
and  his  own  must  be  done  instantly.  The  Indians  have 
heard  the  shots,  and  Pete  can  see  by  the  aid  of  Willough- 
by's  strong  field-glass  that  some  of  them  have  turned 
their  horses  and  are  riding  back. 

He  hurriedly  tightens  the  girth  of  Possum's  saddle  as 
he  stands  in  the  kitchen,  then  hastily  picks  up  the  car- 
tridge belt  of  the  dead  Englishman,  for  his  own  store  of 
ammunition  is  nearly  gone,  and  fortunately  the  two  guns 
use  the  same  shells. 

As  he  does  so  he  sees  the  packet  of  papers  and  letters 
in  Willoughby's  shooting  jacket,  and  transfers  them  to  his 
own  pocket. 

In  all  this  business,  which  takes  but  a  moment,  he 
keeps  one  eye  on  the  alert  for  the  murderer,  but  this  cun- 
ning savage,  called  "  Mescal  "  by  his  fellows,  from  his 
love  of  Mexican  fire-water,  will  take  no  chances  and  lies 
safely  in  the  storehouse  waiting  to  slay  the  American 
should  he  try  to  escape  on  the  river  side,  for  this  gen- 
tleman is  an  old  veteran  in  assassination  and  ambush, 
having  served  his  apprenticeship  in  massacre  ten  years 
ago  under  Cochise. 

He  it  is  who  originated  the  plan  of  replacing  the  dead 
Indian  by  his  own  living  body,  to  shoot  down  the  pale 
faces  after  safety  had  made  them  careless. 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  5J 

This  ruse  he  had  once  before  tried  on  a  green  United 
States  trooper,  calling  to  him  faintly  for  water,  after  a 
fight  in  the  mountains,  and  shooting  his  Samaritan  through 
the  body  as  he  placed  his  canteen  to  his  treacherous  lips 
— au  exploit  Mescal  was  very  proud  of  and  tried  to  repeat 
in  one  form  or  another  whenever  opportunity  offered.  He 
is  apparently  greatly  elated  at  his  last  success  and  chant, 
a  low  monotone  of  hideous  joy,  though  he  will  not  take 
the  risk  of  creeping  out  to  scalp  his  prey,  for  his  com- 
rades will  soon  be  here  ;  then  he  can  do  it  in  leisure  and 
safety. 

He  understands  English  quite  well  and  knew  all  that 
Pete  said  to  the  little  girl,  but  spared  her  for  the  moment, 
hoping  to  bring  her  parents  to  destruction  through  their 
love  for  their  child,  as  he,  being  a  father  himself,  under- 
stands such  sentiments,  having  at  this  moment  two  little 
brown  vipers  of  his  own,  safe  at  the  San  Carlos  agency, 
fattening  upon  government  rations,  and  about  to  have  the 
arts  of  civilization  added  to  their  savage  vices  at  a  board- 
ing-school projected  by  the  Indian  agent,  who  has  just 
written  to  the  Interior  Department  that  his  innocent 
wards  are  even  now  being  cruelly  persecuted  by  the  un- 
principled whites. 

Having  the  father  and  mother  dead  before  him,  old 
Mescal  is  now  keeping  a  sharp  eye  out  for  the  child  and 
the  cowboy,  that  he  may  send  them  to  the  happy  hunting 
grounds  also. 

Mr.  Peter  has  been  pondering  on  the  situation  too. 
He  is  cut  off  from  both  Clifton  and  Yorks.  On  the 
east,  north,  and  south  of  him  the  Apaches  are  drawing 
near  in  a  circle  he  cannot  hope  to  pass  alive.  If  he  were 
alone  he  might  try  it ;  but  burdened  with  the  child  it  is 
''mpossible. 

To  the  west  is  the  storehouse  and  one  savage's  repeat 
ing  rifle.  He  must  risk  that !  But  even  as  he  makes  his 
preparations  for  this  desperate  venture,  he  discovers  this 
slight  chance  is  lost  to  him ;  for  as  he  leads  Possum  to 
the  door  to  throw  it  open,  he  sees  the  storehouse  has 
three  more  Indians  in  it,  who  have  come  back  by  way  of 
the  river-bottom  and  dry  ditch. 

He  might  escape  with  life  from  one  rifle,  but  to 
brave  four,  fired  by  men  who  can  strike  a  running  ante- 
lope, is  certain  destruction. 


58  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

With  a  sinking  heart  he  seizes  the  Englishman's  fieki 
glass  and  sweeps  the  plain,  north,  south,  and  east, 
hoping  the  smoke  signals  may  have  meant  approaching 
aid  either  from  citizens  or  soldiers ;  but  there  are  no 
signs  of  Hatch's  troopers  to  the  north,  nor  of  Volunteers 
on  the  east  or  south  from  Silver  City. 

The  only  change  in  the  landscape  that  he  notes  is  a 
small  but  very  black  cloud  that  seems  to  hang  in  the  air 
quite  low  down  over  the  peaks  of  the  Mogollon  Moun- 
tains. This  is  drifting  slowly  southward. 

Then  he  scans  the  west,  or  river  side,  not  that  there 
is  much  chance  of  aid  coming  from  this  direction,  but 
still  he  wants  to  be  sure  ;  and  finding  no  moving  objects 
there  save  his  enemies  in  the  storehouse,  he  for  the  first 
time  this  day  begins  to  despair,  for  he  cannot  defend  both 
sides  of  the  house  at  the  same  time,  and  the  attack  is  about 
to  begin. 

The  Indians  on  the  mesa  are  rapidly  approaching  ; 
those  in  the  storehouse  are  beginning  to  shoot  to  keep 
his  attention  to  the  river  side. 

Mr.  Peter  begins  to  think  very  hard,  for  he  knows  if  he 
lives  this  day  through  he  will  owe  it  rather  to  his  head 
than  his  hands. 

While  he  is  thinking  he  is  mechanically  transferring 
the  residue  of  Willoughby's  cartridges  to  his  own  belt.  As 
he  does  so  he  gives  a  little  start,  and  seizing  the  field- 
glass  once  more  brings  it  to  bear  upon  the  storehouse, 
searching  with  its  powerful  lens  the  interior  of  the  cabin. 
A  volley  from  the  Indians  knocks  the  adobe  about  him, 
but  he  scarcely  heeds  them,  he  is  too  excited. 

A  moment  after  he  gives  a  little  cry  of  joy,  for  a  ray 
of  sunlight  entering  a  window  in  the  storehouse  shows 
him  the  box  in  which  he  remembers  old  Comming  kept 
his  giant  powder  for  his  mining  operations.  There  it  is, 
marked  in  big  black  letters,  "  DANGEROUS." 

If  the  old  prospector  has  not  let  his  stock  run  out 
perhaps  he  has  found  life  and  revenge  together — for 
among  Willoughby's  cartridges  he  has  just  seen  a  few  ex- 
plosive shells,  manufactured  to  order,  with  which  to  kill 
grizzlies,  for  Englishmen  always  have  different  sorts  of 
ammunition  for  different  kinds  of  game. 

If  he  can  blow  up  this  den  of  his  enemies,  the  road  to 
the  river  will  be  open,  and  an  explosive  shell  in  a  box  of 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  59 

giant  powder  is  just  the  combination  to  do  the  busi- 
ness. 

He  has  little  time  for  his  experiment*  for  bullets  are 
beginning  to  strike  the  opposite  side  of  the  house.  He 
hastily  cuts  off  the  magazine  of  his  Winchester,  using  it 
as  a  breech-loader,  and  rams  in  a  cartridge  with  an  ex- 
plosive bullet.  Then  taking  a  steady  aim  from  a  rest,  he 
puts  a  ball  into  the  giant-powder  box — with  no  result. 
Either  the  shell  has  been  defective  or  the  box  has  been 
empty. 

Almost  tremblingly  he  loads  again,  and  aiming  a  little 
lower  so  as  to  be  sure  to  strike  the  giant  powder,  if  there 
is  any  in  the  box — fires  ! 

Before  he  can  get  the  gun  from  his  shoulder  he  is 
thrown  almost  stunned  and  breathless  back  on  the  mud 
floor  of  the  adobe,  while  the  two  horses  rear  and  stamp 
in  terror,  and  old  Comming's  storehouse,  with  its  four 
occupying  fiends,  in  a  puff  of  rising  smoke  and  cloud  of 
flying  debris,  with  the  condensed  roar  of  a  dozen  thunder- 
storms, has  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

The  road  to  the  river  is  open  ;  but  there  are  plenty 
more  Apaches  coming  from  the  mesa  behind  him. 

He  throws  open  the  door,  and  lifting,  very  tenderly,  to 
his  saddle  the  little  girl,  who  has  appeared  since  her 
parents'  death  half-stupefied  and  is  now  moaning,  though 
she  says  no  word,  he  springs  upon  Possum  and  dashes  in 
a  straight  line  for  the  San  Francisco. 

As  he  rides  past  the  bodies  of  the  English  lady  and  her 
husband,  the  little  girl  cries  out,  "  Papa  !  mamma  !  wake 
up  and  speak  to  me  !  "  struggling  so  wildly  to  get  to  her 
lost  ones  that  he  can  hardly  hold  her  on  the  horse. 

But  Pete  has  no  time  for  sentiment,  though  tears  are  in 
his  eyes  ;  so,  clasping  his  charge  firmly  but  tenderly  to  his 
breast,  he  spurs  on  over  old  Comming's  dried-up  garden, 
and  finding  an  arroyo  rides  down  it  into  the  willows  that 
shade  the  bank  of  the  San  Francisco.  The  river,  which 
at  this  beginning  of  the  rainy  season,  is  hardly  a  foot 
deep,  he  crosses  more  leisurely,  letting  Possum  drink, 
and  scooping  up  the  water  in  his  sombrero  for  the  re- 
freshment of  the  child  and  himself.  Then  dashing  the 
cool  liquid  over  the  little  girl's  face  she  is  greatly  revived, 
and  begins  to  cry  out  bitterly  to  be  taken  back  to  her 
father  and  mother,  who  can't  be  really  dead ;  for  the 


fc  MISS   NOBODY   Of   NOWHERE, 

child  has  never  before  looked  on  the  king  of  terrors,  and 
it  is  hard  even  for  the  old  to  realize  they  are  suddenly 
bereft. 

This  Pete  answers  only  by  soothing  words  as  he  spurs 
quickly  on. 

Coming  out  of  the  river  canon  by  a  steep  trail  the 
cowboy  reaches  the  mesa  on  the  west  of  the  San  Fran- 
cisco, looks  back  and  sees  the  pursuing  Indians  nearly  at 
the  stream.  For  a  moment  he  hesitates  and  is  about  to 
turn  Possum's  head  toward  Clifton,  but  gazing  that  way 
sees  a  few  more  Apaches  crossing  the  San  Francisco 
farther  up  to  cut  him  off. 

As  this  strikes  his  eye  he  also  sees  that  the  black  cloud 
from  the  Mogollon  Mountains  has  grown  much  larger, 
much  blacker,  and  much  nearer,  and  is  now  drifting 
rapidly  toward  him. 

Then  he  suddenly  turns  his  horse's  head  southwest  and 
rides  straight  for  the  Gila,  in  the  direction  of  San  Jose", 
Solomonsville,  and  the  Pueblo  valley  settlements. 

Seeing  this,  a  faint  yell  of  triumph  comes  over  the 
plain  from  the  Apaches ;  for  they  know  he  has  nearly 
thirty  miles  to  travel,  and  they  will  run  him  down, 
weighted  as  he  is  by  the  little  girl,  long  before  he  car. 
make  half  the  distance. 

But  Pete  only  glances  at  the  dark  cloud,  even  now 
nearer  and  bigger,  smiles  a  grim  smile  and  rides  straight 
for  the  box  canon  of  the  Gila. 

He  knows  the  country  very  well,  and  has  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  has  just  so  many  miles  to  travel,  and  no 
more.  Giving  Possum  his  head  he  lets  him  run  at  top 
speed,  for  he  wants  to  have  time  to  cross  the  river  and 
prepare  himself  before  the  Apaches  reach  its  northern 
bank. 

So  the  mustang  dashes  on,  the  mesa  hotter  and  dustier 
than  before,  for,  though  quite  late  in  the  afternoon,  the 
sun  seems  to  grow  more  torrid  as  the  day  advances. 
Pete,  all  the  while,  trying  to  make  his  charge  as  com- 
fortable as  possible,  first  carrying  her  on  one  arm  and 
then  on  the  other,  and  growing  very  tender  to  the  little 
thing  in  her  beauty  and  helplessness,  for  her  long  chest- 
nut hair  and  deep,  big  brown  eyes  remind  him  of  the 
sweet  English  lady  lying  dead  on  the  prairie  behind  him, 
as  the  orphan  whispers  in  his  ear,  "  You'll  keep  me  from 


MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE.  6l 

those  bad  men  back  there,  just  like  you  were  my  own 
papa,  won't  you,  Mr.  Peter  ?  " 

To  this  he  only  answers  with  a  tender  clasp,  and  the 
little  child,  knowing  she  may  have  his  life  for  her  service, 
if  it  will  do  her  good,  for  children  are  very  wise  in  these 
matters  of  the  heart,  puts  two  dimpled  arms  round  his 
neck  and  whispers,  "  Kiss  me,  dear  Mr.  Peter,  kiss  me  ! " 

This  he  does  very  reverently,  and  she,  giving  a  little 
sigh  of  content,  puts  her  curly  head  trustingly  upon  his 
shoulder. 

A  few  minutes  after  Pete  utters  an  exclamation  of  de- 
light ;  he  has  struck  the  Gila,  and  the  stream  is  as  he  re- 
members it.  For  the  river  soon  after  it  is  joined  by  the 
San  Francisco  flows  through  what  is  called  in  the  West  a 
box-canon  ;  that  is,  it  cuts  down  through  the  plateau, 
flowing  in  a  channel  of  varying  width,  between  banks 
that  on  each  side  are  precipices,  sometimes  going 
straight  as  a  plumb-line  down  to  the  water,  and  some- 
times with  varying  inclines,  but  nearly  always  impossible 
of  descent  or  ascent ;  a  phase  of  nature  common  to  these 
Western  rivers,  making  them  often  grand,  tremendous, 
and  gigantic. 

The  canon  Pete  is  gazing  at  is  not  a  large  one  ;  its. 
banks  are  in  no  places  very  high,  and  its  waters  are  in  na 
places  very  deep :  still  it  is  inaccessible  from  the  mesa  for 
some  distance  up  and  down  the  stream — save  at  one  ford. 

To  this  the  cowboy  rides  like  a  whirlwind,  for  it  is  nec- 
essary to  get  down  one  bank  and  up  the  other  before 
his  enemies  arrive  at  the  crossing,  and  he  is  exposed  to 
their  rifles  as  he  struggles  up  the  cliff. 

Possum  seems  to  divine  this  himself,  and,  urged  by  hia 
master's  spurs,  bounds  down  a  trail  that  at  any  other 
time  he  would  descend  with  trembling  limbs,  sure-footecl 
as  these  mustang  ponies  generally  are.  In  a  minute 
Pete  has  descended  to  the  river's  edge,  and  as  he  dashes 
across  through  waters  that  hardly  reach  his  saddle  girth 
the  cowboy  again  uses  his  sombrero  and  dips  up  a  drink 
for  Flossie  and  himself. 

Then  they  rush  up  the  trail  on  the  other  side. 

Almost  at  the  top  the  little  girl,  looking  back  over  his 
shoulder,  suddenly  cries  out :  "  Bad  men  behind  us 
again  ! "  A  rifle  shot  echoes  up  and  down  the  canon, 
and  Pete,  though  shivering  and  groaning,  contrived  tc 


62  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERX. 

drop  his  little  charge  safely  behind  a  boulder  on  top 
of  the  plateau.  The  next  moment  he  falls  from  his  sad- 
dle desperately  wounded,  and  writhes  to  the  shelter  of  a 
neighboring  ledge  of  rocks  ;  while  little  Flossie  runs 
to  him  and  caresses  him,  crying  out  with  horror,  for  he 
makes  an  awful  picture  covered  with  dust  and  blood. 

Taking  a  quick  look  at  his  hurt  he  finds  that  the  bul 
let  has  gone  through  his  thigh,  but  no  artery  being 
wounded,  though  the  loss  of  blood  is  great,  he  may  have 
strength  to  lie  down  and  use  his  gun  for  an  hour  or 
more ;  which,  as  Pete  sees  the  great  black  cloud  that  is 
nearer,  bigger,  and  blacker  than  before,  and  now  covers 
halt  the  heavens,  he  thinks  will  perchance  be  long 
enough. 

But  he  has  no  time  to  think  more  ;  he  must  fight  now  ! 

So,  racked  with  pain,  and  trembling  with  weakness,  Pete, 
charging  little  Flossie  to  keep  where  she  is  and  not  stand 
up  nor  expose  herself,  crawls  to  the  edge  of  the  mesa, 
and  sheltered  by  some  rocks,  looks  down  into  tfae  river 
bed. 

The  Indians  having  seen  him  fall  have  come  down  the 
trail,  and  are  now  rapidly  but  incautiously  crossing  the 
stream.  Once  on  the  same  side  of  the  Gila  with  him, 
that  black  cloud  that  is  now  wildly  whirling  up  to  itself 
the  dust  of  both  foot-hills  and  plains,  will  do  its  work  in 
vain. 

He  rapidly  opens  fire. 

Aiming  with  care,  weak  as  he  is,  his  shooting  is  tolera- 
bly close,  and  a  minute  after  his  pursuers  retreat  from 
the  water  with  one  man  slightly  wounded. 

Then  dropping  behind  boulders  in  the  river  bed,  they 
try,  by  a  close  and  rapid  fire,  to  force  him  to  keep  his 
cover,  while  one  of  them  attempts  to  cross  the  stream, 
shielded  by  a  ledge  of  rocks  that  rises  in  the  midst  of 
the  running  waters. 

But  Pete  himself  takes  desperate  chances  now,  and 
contrives  to  shoot  so  close  at  this  fellow  that  he  gives  it 
up  and  returns  to  the  other  bank. 

And  this  being  over  the  cowboy  lies  groaning  with 
pain  and  feverish  with  thirst,  looking  at  the  black  cloud 
and  praying  it  will  come  faster,  for  in  this  second  m&lkt 
be  has  been  wounded  again. 

A  moment  after  a  little  hand  is  laid  on  his  shouldes; 


MiSS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE,  6j 

and  a  sweet  voice  whispers  to  his  ear :  "  Dear  Mr. 
Peter,  I  have  brought  you  some  water — you  look  so  thirsty 
now,"  and  turning  feverish  eyes  upon  the  child,  he  sees 
Flossie  with  a  drink  in  her  straw  hat  she  has  gathered 
from  a  little  rivulet  that  trickles  over  the  brow  of  the 
mesa  into  the  canon  below. 

This  draught  gives  him  renewed  strength  anrt  life  tc 
fight  for  his  ministering  angel.  But  as  he  turns  to  do  so 
he  gives  a  start  and  cries  :  "  What's  the  matter  with  your 
arm  ? " 

And  she  holding  her  little  dimpled  member  to  him,  he 
finds  it  bleeding  from  a  rifle-ball  that  has  glanced  cut- 
tingly across  it,  half-way  between  the  shoulder  and  the 
elbow,  and  just  below  a  tiny  mole.  It  will  heal  in  a  week, 
but  the  mark  will  be  on  the  child's  beautiful  arm  forever 

He  would  bind  it  up,  but  has  no  time  ;  for  now,  after  a 
slight  consultation,  the  Apaches  are  doing  the  one  thing 
he  has  feared. 

Some  hold  his  attention  shooting  from  the  opposite 
bank,  while  others  go  up  and  down  the  river-bed,  striving 
to  cross  the  water,  which  is  not  very  deep  at  any  place. 
This  they  do  hurriedly,  for  they  know  they  have  little 
time,  and  the  black  heavens  to  the  north  have  told  them 
the  cowboy's  plan. 

Which  is,  to  prevent  their  crossing  the  river  until  the 
coming  cloud-burst  separates  them  from  him  by  a  rushing 
torrent  that  no  leviathan  can  ford,  nor  mammoth  stand 
against. 

So  they  come  on,  firing  as  their  swarthy  bodies  glide 
from  rock  to  rock,  or  from  willow  to  cotton-wood  ;  a  few 
trees  at  this  spot  studding  the  bed  of  the  canon. 

And  now  the  magazine  of  Pete's  Winchester  does  its 
work,  for  he  shoots  one  through  the  body  ;  but  this  does 
not  stop  the  others,  and  one  is  half  way  across  and  an- 
other is  just  springing  to  the  rocks  on  the  cowboy's  side 
of  the  river,  immediately  below  him. 

Upon  this  enemy  Pete  fires,  but  cannot  see  him,  for 
though  the  sun  has  not  yet  set,  a  sudden  blackness  comes 
upon  the  earth  around  them  and  descends  upon  the 
waters  beneath  them,  making  the  canon  dark  as  night. 

And  even  as  this  happens,  Heaven,  for  the  first  time 
this  long  day,  comes  to  the  assistance  of  this  wounded 
man  and  helpless  child. 


%4  MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE. 

There  is  a  noise  overhead  like  that  of  the  exploding 
storehouse,  and  in  one  mighty  roar  the  deluge  descends. 
Almost  in  a  minute  the  river  is  a  wild,  whirling,  reddish 
flood,  that  carries  pebbles  on  its  surface  as  if  they  were 
corks,  and  rolls  big  boulders  down  its  bed. 

Next  into  the  blackness  of  the  night  comes  one  tre- 
mendous, vivid,  electric  flash,  lighting  up  the  depths  of 
the  caflon.  By  it  Pete  sees  the  Apaches  have  reached 
the  path  on  the  opposite  bank,  and  half  way  up  its  ascent 
are  now  safe  from  the  flood.  All  save  one  ! 

This  wretch  is  still  on  the  same  side  of  the  river  as 
Pete  and  the  little  English  girl.  He  has  gained  a  ledge 
of  rock  that  juts  out  from  the  cliff  over  the  hell  of  waters 
rising  to  engulf  him,  and  is  trying  to  climb  the  almost 
perpendicular  surface,  now  made  slippery  by  the  rain 
that  pours  down  every  inch  of  the  canon  walls. 

Then  all  is  black  again,  and  Pete,  taking  the  revolver 
from  his  belt,  nervously  waits  for  another  flash  ;  for  this 
one  savage  upon  his  side  of  the  river  is  certain  death  to 
him,  made  helpless  by  many  wounds,  and  the  little  girl 
he  has  suffered  so  much  to  save — should  he  gain  the  top 
of  the  mesa. 

The  lightning  comes  again,  and  on  hands  and  knees, 
peering  over,  the  cowboy  finds  himself  staring  in  the  face 
of  this  bronze  human  cat,  who  has  contrived  to  climb 
where  a  monkey  would  hardly  find  a  hold.  The  two  glare 
at  each  other — not  five  feet  apart :  the  Indian  reaching 
for  a  root  growing  down  the  edge  of  the  cliff  to  swing 
himself  to  a  foothold  on  the  mesa,  the  white  man  raising 
his  revolver  ;  the  lightning  illuminating  the  scene  with  the 
light  of  a  Dor£  picture. 

Then  the  savage,  whose  gun  is  slung  over  his  shoulder, 
getting  his  feet  into  some  crevice  of  the  precipice,  makes 
the  spring  of  a  panther  for  his  enemy's  throat,  and  the 
American's  revolver  gives  out  its  fatal  bullet. 

There  is  a  death-cry  that  goes  up  over  the  roar  of 
waters,  and  the  Indian,  falling  into  the  torrent  beneath, 
is  carried  whirling  down  the  canon  of  the  Gila,  to  be 
ground  to  pulp  against  its  boulders  and  rocky  wails. 

At  the  same  moment  a  scattering  volley  is  fired  from 
across  the  stream,  and  Mr.  Pete  giving  a  little  sigh  sinks 
down  senseless  by  the  side  of  the  little  girl,  who  strives 
with  childish  caresses  and  endearments  to  bring  back  to 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  65 

life  and  motion  this  man  she  knows  has  suffered  for  her 
safety. 

After  a  time  the  coldness  of  the  air  and  the  descending 
rain  revive  him,  and  he  wakes  to  find  the  last  volley  has 
broken  his  right  arm  and  made  him  entirely  helpless  ;  but 
he  looks  across  the  caflon,  upon  which  the  sinking  sun  is 
again  shining,  and  sees  the  Apaches  well  on  their  way  to 
the  north,  while  separating  them  still  rolls  the  Gila,  flooded 
and  impassable. 

The  smoke  signals  all  up  and  down  the  range  tell  him 
the  Indians  will  not  dare  to  linger  in  the  valley — that 
they  are  saved  ;  and  he  gives  a  faint  cheer  and  goes  to 
sleep  again,  watched  over  by  the  child,  who  has  brought 
him  water  once  more  from  the  little  creek. 

Thus  the  sun  goes  down  upon  them,  Flossie  lying  in 
her  wounded  protector's  arms. 

About  the  middle  of  the  night  he  again  begs  for  water, 
which  his  little  Samaritan  again  supplies  him,  for  the 
fever  of  his  wounds  is  now  upon  him.  Then  he  frightens 
the  child,  for  he  begins  to  rave  and  cries  out :  "  Line  up, 
boys.  The  Blue  above  the  Crimson !  "  and  sings  his  col- 
lege songs  and  gives  out  his  college  cries,  and  then  the 
cries  of  all  other  colleges  ;  which  is  perhaps  well  for  the 
safety  of  the  little  girl,  as  they  keep  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance a  band  of  roving  coyotes  that  have  scented  death 
in  the  air,  and  have  come  down  to  get  a  meal. 

These  wary  scavengers  of  the  prairies  are  accustomed 
to  the  noises  of  the  wilderness,  but  have  never  encount- 
ered such  insane  sounds  as  this  raving  college  cowboy, 
who  utters  the  war-notes  peculiar  to  our  institutions  of 
learning,  gives  out.  And  when  Pete  in  one  wild  moment 
gives  them  a  deep  sepulchral  Yl  A  !  L!  El— YALE  ! 
succeeded  by  a  series  of  Harvard  Rah  !  Rah !  RAH'S  ! 
and  followed  up  by  a  Princeton  sky-rocket,  with  a  ter- 
rific s-s-sis-BOOM  ! — A-A-AH  !  the  coyotes  burst  into  a 
yelling  chorus,  and  sticking  their  tails  between  their  legs, 
fly  from  this  creature  who  can  -make  more  horrid  music 
than  themselves. 

So  it  comes  to  pass,  early  next  morning,  a  band  of 
volunteers  from  Silver  City,  headed  by  Brick  Garvey, 
who  have  been  following  up  the  trail  of  the  redskins, 
crossing  the  Gila,  that  has  again  fallen  to  its  usual  stream, 
and  coming  upon  the  mesa,  are  surprised  to  see  a  piebald 


66  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

pony  grazing  contentedly  on  gramma-grass,  and  to  hear  a 
brown-haired,  hazel-eyed  little  girl  calling  out :  "  Wake 
up,  Mr.  Peter  ;  it's  morning  !  WAKE  UP  !  "  Then  seeing 
the  frontiersmen,  she  cries :  "  You're  not  bad  men  like 
the  Indians  ;  help  me  wake  up  dear  Mr.  Peter,  who  is  very 
cold  ;  so  cold  that  sometimes  I  think  he's  like  my  dear 
papa  and  mamma — DEAD  1 " 


CHAPTER  VL 

BRICK   GARVEY'S  INQUEST. 

a  BY  the  etarnal  I  "  cries  Garvey,  "  if  it  ain't  Pete  ! " 

In  a  moment  they  are  all  about  the  prostrate  cowboy, 
who  is  just  breathing.  One  of  them,  a  local  practitioner 
from  Silver  City,  who  has  volunteered  to  come  as  doctor 
with  the  party,  makes  a  hurried  examination. 

"  Wai,  Doc.,  what's  the  chances  ? "  asks  the  sheriff 
anxiously. 

The  young  medical  man  shakes  his  head. 

"  Has  he  passed  in  his  chips  ?  "  queries  the  leader. 

"  Not  yet — but  he's  going  to." 

u  Not  if  I  can  help  it,  young  sawbones,"  cries  Garvey. 
"Put  the  divine  fluid  inside  him.  Whiskey's  the  best 
antidote  for  snake  pizens,  Injin  bullets,  and  all  other 
kinds  of  disease.  Fill  him  with  whiskey,  bullet-holes 
and  all." 

The  doctor  does  as  he  is  told,  and  Pete  after  a  time 
partially  revives,  though  still  delirious  and  incapable  of 
giving  any  account  of  the  affair. 

Meantime  others  of  the  band,  in  their  homely  but 
kindly  Western  way,  have  attended  to  the  little  girl's 
wants  ;  and  comforted  by  something  to  eat,  Flossie  gives 
them  her  childish  version  of  what  has  taken  place.  How 
the  bad  dark  men  had  made  a  bang  noise,  and  her  dear, 
dear  mother  had  tumbled  down  and  sighed  and  closed 
her  eyes ;  and  her  father  had  run  to  help  and  they  had 
done  the  same  to  him ;  and  that  Mr.  Peter  had  taken  her 
on  a  horse  and  ran  with  her  to  the  place  she  now  is,  and 
had  "fight -ted"  the  Indian  men  till  *He  rain  had  filled 


MISS   NOBODY   Ofr   NOWHER*  ft) 

the  river,  and  had  been  very  good  to  her  and  sang  songs 
and  called  out  all  night,  and  frightened  a  whole  herd  of 
little  doggies  away. 

Now,  Mr.  Garvey  having  followed  the  trail  of  the  sav- 
ages, all  this  is  already  known  to  his  frontier  senses  as 
well  as  if  he  had  seen  it  take  place,  though  he  does  not 
yet  understand  the  reason  of  the  explosion  of  old  Com- 
ming's  storehouse,  and  questions  Flossie  on  the  subject, 
but  can  only  make  out  from  her  tale  that  some  way  or 
other  it  was  "  Pete's  doings  that  blew  the  Injuns  up." 

Adding  their  experience  to  the  child's  information,  they 
all  become  impressed  with  the  fight  that  Pete  has  made 
to  save  the  little  girl,  and  Garvey,  who  is  proud  of  his 
Eastern  prote'ge',  remarks,  gazing  with  eyes  that  are  sus- 
piciously moist  at  the  form  of  the  young  man,  who  is 
writhing  in  delirium  upon  a  pile  of  blankets  hastily  thrown 
on  the  ground,  "  Pete  war  the  grittiest  tenderfoot  I  ever 
seed.  If  he  pulls  through  I'll  make  a  man  of  him,  even 
though  he  comes  from  Mass'chusitts,  a  place  whar  I'm 
told  they  breed  philanthropodists." 

"  What  are  they  ? "  asks  the  young  doctor,  with  a  sneer 
on  his  face  at  Garvey's  vocabulary. 

"  Philanthropodists,  young  man,"  remarks  Mr.  Garvey 
oracularly,  "are  cusses  that  love  Injuns.  And,  by  the 
soul  of  Sam  Houston  !  when  I  think  of  yesterday's  divil- 
ments,  I  feel  like  scalping  every  philanthropodist  in  the 
country !  " 

"  There's  a  lot  of  them  down  at  Lordsburgh  now,"  says 
one  of  the  party.  "  Raymond  excursioners  going  to  Cali- 
fornie.  I  heard  'em  in  their  Pullman  car  talking  about 
the  outrage  of  sending  troops  after  the  poor  Apaches." 

"  The  divil,  you  say  ! " 

"  Yes,  they  were  expressing  their  ideas  on  the  cruelty 
•f  murdering  Injins." 

"  Murdering  Injins !  "  cried  Garvey;  "  next  thing  we'll 
hear  of  assassinating  rattlesnakes.  Them  philanthropo- 
dists are  at  Lordsburgh  NOW  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  they'll  hardly  git  away  from  thar  for  another 
day  or  two — the  track's  been  washed  out  by  cloudbursts 
ahead  of  'em." 

At  this  news  Mr.  Garvey  rolls  his  eyes  in  meditation, 
but  a  moment  after  astounds  his  followers  by  giving  9 
*remendous  "  Hoop  1  Ki-Yi  J  " 


W  HISS  NOBODY   OP  NOWHERE, 

"What's  struck  you,  Cap  ?"  says  his  lieutenant. 

'*  Nothen  but  an  idea,"  returns  the  sheriff.  Then  he 
orders  them  to  take  the  bodies  to  Lordsburgh  to  have 
them  inquested  there. 

Some  of  his  followers  rather  demur  to  this,  saying  that 
Comming's  ranch  is  in  Arizona,  and  it'll  be  against  the 
law. 

"  Agin  the  law  ?  "  cries  Garvey.  "  True,  we  found  them 
ar  bodies  in  Arizona,  but  'tain't  far  to  the  line,  and  what's 
to  prove  they  weren't  shot  in  our  territory  ?  Besides,  I'm 
Breckinridge  Garvey,  the  sheriff  of  Grant  County,  New 
Mexico,  and  I'm  going  to  have,  in  the  town  of  Lords- 
burgh,  in  my  jurisdiction,  an  inquest  that  will  make 
philanthropodists  shake  in  their  boots,  and  be  writ  about 
in  big  type  by  the  newspapers. " 

No  one  answers  Mr.  Garvey,  for  there  is  a  very  wild 
light  in  his  steel  gray  eyes  and  a  very  earnest  tone  in  his 
hearty  Western  voice. 

His  orders  are  obeyed,  and  some  taking  charge  of 
Pete  and  the  little  girl,  who  clings  to  her  erstwhile  pro- 
tector, and  begs  not  to  be  taken  from  dear  Mr.  Peter,  they 
\etrace  their  way  to  Comming's  ranch  ;  from  which  place 
they  bring  the  bodies  of  Captain  Willoughby  and  his  wife, 
together  with  those  of  two  unfortunate  herders  found 
killed  farther  up  the  valley.  Then  making  a  long  night 
ride  of  it,  for  it  is  cooler  travelling  and  Garvey  seems 
in  a  great  hurry,  they  pass  Yorks  and  George  Guthrie's 
ranches,  and  fording  the  Gila  at  Carroll's  jin-mill,  they 
come  out  on  the  great  plains,  and  passing  the  ten-mile 
mounds,  they  get  into  Lordsburgh  early  in  the  morning, 
to  find  the  Pullman  car  with  its  Raymond  excursionists 
still  waiting  the  train  despatcher's  orders. 

Seeing  this,  the  sheriff  mutters  sternly,  "  I've  got  'em  !  " 
Then  turns  and  hurriedly  asks,  "  Is  Hank  Johnston  in 
town  ? "  and  receiving  an  answer  that  that  young  frontier 
lawyer  is  even  now  in  the  Ormsby  House,  he  bolts  up- 
stairs to  find  Mr.  Johnston  in  the  act  of  dressing. 

In  his  bedroom  they  have  an  animated  ten-minutes  in- 
terview, and  discuss  one  or  two  law  points,  Garvey  leaving 
his  legal  adviser  with  this  significant  remark,  "  If  you  do 
this  business  right  cute,  Hank,  it'll  put  you  into  Congress 
next  election  sartin  as  you're  out  of  it  now  !  "  A  speech 
which  places  such  a  grin  on  Johnston's  face  that  he  n?.r- 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  69 

rowly  escapes  cutting  his  throat,  being  at  the  moment 
struggling  with  a  dull  razor  and  wiry  beard. 

Coming  down-stairs  on  to  the  sidewalk  from  this  con- 
versation, Mr.  Garvey  is  immediately  addressed  by  a 
young  man  of  English  appearance  and  manner,  who 
hastily  introduces  himself  as  Mr.  Arthur  Willoughby,  of 
London,  England. 

He  has  very  bright  dark  eyes  that  come  from  his  Ital- 
ian mother,  and  are  in  great  contrast  to  the  Saxon  blue 
ones  of  the  man  who  had  been  his  elder  brother,  but  is 
now  dead. 

He  speaks  hurriedly  and  with  perhaps  a  little  agitation. 
"  You  are  the  officer  who  headed  the  militia  to  march 
after  the  Indians  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  your  man,"  replies  Garvey,  shortly,  for  he 
has  a  good  deal  to  do  this  morning. 

"  Then  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  if  anything  has  hap- 
pened to  Captain  Thomas  Willoughby  and  his  family. 
I'm  his  brother." 

"  My  poor  fellow,"  returns  the  sheriff  in  a  low  tone, 
"  I'm  not  good  at  breaking  bad  news.  Your  brother  and 
his  wife  were  murdered  by  the  red  brutes  two  days  ago." 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  gasps  the  young  Englishman,  and  he 
appears  deeply  agitated.  Then  he  says  slowly  and  very 
anxiously,  "  My  little  niece  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Miss  Flossie  ?  "  says  Garvey,  glad  to  give  some 
little  comfort.  "  She's  getting  her  breakfast  in  the  din- 
ing-room, and  is  as  well  and  hearty  as  a  child  can  be." 
Then  he  cries  suddenly  :  "  Great  Gosh !  I  broke  this 
cursed  news  too  sudden,"  for  at  his  last  words  his  lis- 
tener's face  grows  very  pale — he  reels  and  supports  him- 
self against  the  wall  of  the  hotel,  in  front  of  which  they 
are  speaking. 

For  the  Ormsby  House  has  only  one  stairway,  and  that 
is  on  its  outside,  and  they  are  talking  at  the  foot  of  this 
on  the  sidewalk. 

After  a  moment  or  two,  the  young  man  by  an  effort 
pulls  himself  together  again  and  whispers  :  "  It  can't  be 
possible." 

"  Yes,  it  is,  my  poor  boy  ;  your  brother  and  his  wife 
are  in  that  house,  being  prepared  for  the  inquest,"  mutters 
Garvey,  pointing  to  a  building  south  of  the  railroad  track 
near  the  hotel 


70  MISS  NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE. 

"  But  it  is  not  possible  the  Indians  killed  the  parents 
and  spared  the  child.  I've  heard  too  much  about  them 
to  believe  that  I  "  returns  Arthur,  as  if  he  would  not  ad- 
mrUthe  little  girl  had  escaped. 

"  You're  perfectly  kirrict  in  your  jidgment  of  Injtns, 
young  man,"  says  the  sheriff.  "  Your  niece  would  have 
been  dead  with  her  daddy  and  mammy  only  she  war  saved 
by  a  brave  man  who  risked  his  life,  and  perhaps  lost  it, 
for  the  kid's  sake." 

At  this  Arthur  Willoughby's  lips  move,  though  no 
sound  comes  from  them. 

"  As  soon  as  you  get  through  praying  for  him  I'll  take 
you  to  the  child,  and  then  we'll  see  what  can  be  done  for 
Pete.  This  ride  on  top  of  his  wounds  would  kill  any 
breathin*  critter  but  a  cowboy.  He's  a  leetle  out  of  his 
head  now  ;  thar's  two  docs  with  him."  With  these  words 
Mr.  Garvey  leads  Arthur  Willoughby,  who  seems  too 
much  overcome  to  have  a  will  of  his  own,  into  the  hotel 
dining-room,  where  they  meet  Miss  Flossie,  who  has 
been  under  the  motherly  hands  of  some  kind  woman,  and 
has  just  finished  her  breakfast. 

At  the  sight  of  Arthur  she  bursts  into  weeping,  and 
sobs  out  that  her  dear  father  and  mother  have  been 
killed  by  Indians ;  that  she  has  only  him  and  dear  Mr. 
Peter  to  take  care  of  her  now. 

"You'd  like  to  see  Pete,  I  suppose,"  remarks  Mr. 
Garvey,  after  a  moment. 

"  Yes,  certainly ;  he  may  have  some  papers,"  mutters 
the  young  man,  and  follows  the  sheriff,  who  leads  Flossie 
by  the  hand,  to  a  chamber  that  has  been  made  as  com- 
fortable for  the  wounded  man  as  loving  hearts  and  kind 
hands  could  with  only  frontier  conveniences,  for  Pete's 
exploit  has  got  about  Lordsburgh,  and  every  one  in  it, 
including  "Russian  Bill,"  its  pet  desperado,  is  anxious  to 
do  something  for  the  cowboy  hero. 

This  room  is  immediately  next  the  large  one  that  will 
be  used  for  the  inquest ;  both  are  entered  directly  from 
the  ground  alongside  the  railroad  tracks,  but  there  is  a 
communicating  door  between. 

On  a  bed  in  this  apartment,  the  windows  of  which  are 
all  open  to  catch  what  little  breeze  there  may  be,  for  the 
heat  of  the  Gila  plains  in  summer  is  as  scorching  as 
that  of  a  Libyan  desert,  tha  wounded  cowboy  lies.  His 


MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE.  Jl 

head  is  done  up  in  bandages,  and  he  seems  only  semi* 
conscious.  This  is  probably  the  result  of  morphine 
given  during  the  doctors'  work  upon  him,  they  having 
probed  for  and  extracted  the  bullets  that  were  in  him, 
and  set  and  bandaged  his  shattered  arm.  This  has  been 
put  in  a  sling  and  lies  over  his  breast  as  he  rests  upon  his 
back,  breathing  deeply  but  quietly.  His  eyes,  though 
dull  and  heavy,  have  a  curious,  wandering  expression  in 
them. 

A  hotel  barkeeper  is  sitting  and  watching  over  him,  a 
lemonade  in  his  hand  that  he  is  administering  to  the  suf- 
ferer with  the  tenderness  of  a  woman.  On  seeing  the 
sheriff,  this  man  moves  quietly  back  and  lets  him  ap- 
proach the  bed. 

"  Pete,  old  fell ',"  whispers  Garvey,  bending  over  him, 
"  I've  brought  you  the  little  gal's  uncle  to  thank  you  for 
saving  her  life." 

Flossie,  who  has  run  to  the  other  side  of  the  cot, 
presses  tenderly  his  uninjured  left  hand,  and  babbles: 
"  Dear  Mr.  Peter,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  comfortable.  I 
hope  the  doctor  will  make  you  well  soon,  and  so  does 
Uncle  Arthur."  Then  she  points  to  the  young  English- 
man, who  is  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  cowboy's  bed 
looking  at  him  in  that  unmeaning  manner  peculiar  to  a 
certain  class  of  the  English  race,  a  stare  that  is  too 
fathomless  to  be  read  by  any  play  of  feature  or  move- 
ment of  eye  or  lip,  for  there  is  none,  though  Garvey,  who 
is  no  physiognomist,  thinks  to  himself  "the  Britisher's 
gratitude  is  hardly  up  to  the  requirements."  He,  how- 
ever, says  nothing,  for  at  this  moment  Pete,  following 
Flossie's  hand,  notices  Arthur  Willoughby. 

As  he  does  so,  he  half  raises  himself  in  bed,  his  eyes 
seem  to  light  up  with  a  feverish  fire  of  anger  and  con- 
tempt, and  he  mutters,  though  the  syllables  come  slowlyi 
"  The  brain  of  a  Machiavelli  and  the  heart  of  one  of  those 
brutes — out  there  !  "  And  trying  to  point  to  the  distant 
mesa  with  his  wounded  arm  gives  a  groan  of  anguish, 
his  eyes  become  dull  again,  and  he  falls  back  upon  the 
pillow. 

"  Poor  divil,  raving  ag'in  I  "  mutters  Garvey.  *'  Whc 
ever  heard  in  these  parts  of  a  Mach-o-vil  ?  Best  come 
away  and  give  him  a  chance  to  rest."  Then  he  glances 
it  the  ministering  barkeeper  and  says  :  "  You'll  stay  with 


y*  MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE. 

him,  Jimmy,  until  relieved  ?  "  And  being  answered  with 
a  nod  from  the  mixer  of  drinks,  Mr.  Garvey,  who  is  in  a 
hurry  about  his  inquest,  leaves  the  room.  He  has  already 
reached  the  plank  used  as  a  sidewalk  when  the  young 
Englishman  overtakes  and  stops  him. 

"  He  may  have  some  papers  belonging  to  my  niece  'i 
Couldn't  you  get  them  for  me,  my  good  man  ? "  he  re- 
marks to  the  sheriff. 

"  Get  'em  ?  Get  'em  yourself !  And  look  heah,  people 
round  these  diggins  don't  call  me  '  my  good  man,'  for 
they  know  I'm  a  tarnation  bad  one  when  I'm  riled,  son- 
ny !  "  returns  Garvey,  his  lips  growing  a  little  more  set 
and  slightly  thinner,  for  he  is  not  pleased  at  the  patron- 
izing tone  or  language  of  the  remark. 

"  Oh,  no  offence,  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Sheriff,"  answers 
Arthur.  "  But  there  may  have  been  some  papers  given 
that — awh — wounded  cowboy  by  my  brother " 

"  Thar  war  some  papers." 

«  Ah  ! " 

"And  I've  got  'em,"  continues  Garvey.  "  But  I  ain't 
read  'em,  and  sha'n't  till  he's  dead  ;  and  if  he  don't  die 
he'll  settle  what  he  does  with  them  himself.  So  you 
come  round  when  Pete's  passed  in  his  checks  or  got 
about,  and  we'll  fix  the  documents." 

At  the  word  documents,  Willoughby  starts.  He  says 
excitedly:  "But  I'm  going  to  England,  you  know.  I 
carn't  wait  till  the  cowboy  gets  well  or  dies." 

"  All  right !  leave  your  address  with  me,  and  if  thar's 
any  you  ought  to  have  they'll  be  forwarded  by  mail." 
Then  leaving  the  Englishman  gazing  after  him,  the  sheriff 
strides  off  to  put  his  inquest  in  motion. 

Standing  by  the  railroad  track  with  a  bare  head,  the 
sun  must  daze  Arthur  Willoughby  for  a  moment,  for  he 
hisses,  though  under  his  breath,  these  extraordinary 
words :  "  The  fool  would  have  been  more  civil  if  he'd 
known  he  was  talking  to  an  English  peer."  Then  he 
stops  suddenly,  and  looking  at  his  little  niece,  who  is  in 
the  open  doorway,  gazing  at  her  defender  who  has  grown 
restless  and  is  tossing  upon  his  cot,  his  eyes  grow  sly  and 
cunning  and  cruel,  and  what  Mr.  Garvey  would  call  "  a 
Greazer  expression"  comes  into  them,  as  he  mutters: 
"  Not  yet ! "  and  looking  at  the  cowboy,  laughs  the 
yellow  laugh  of  disappointment,  then  sighs :  "  That 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE,  ?3 

infernal  fool  spoilt  the  most  successful  coup  I  ever  in- 
vented." 

A  moment  after,  a  smile  comes  over  his  face,  and  the 
Italian  eyes  grow  sunny  as  he  calls,  **  Come  along,  my 
sweet  little  Flossie — come  with  your  uncle  Arthur,"  and 
is  leading  the  child  back  to  the  Ormsby  House,  when 
a  deputy-sheriff  steps  up  to  him  and  says,  "  You  won't 
mind  bringing  this  little  girl  to  the  inquest  ?  The  cor 
oner  wants  her  deposition." 

"  Oh,  ah,  yes  !  the  inquest,  of  course,"  returns  Arthur. 
"  They'll  have  it  soon,  I  hope ;  we  are  going  to  leave  by 
the  next  train  for  the  East,  you  know."  Here  he  pauses 
and  remarks,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  **  As  soon  as  I 
have  made  arrangements  for  the  funeral,  and  it  has  taken 
place."  For  the  deputy  is  gazing  at  him  in  wonder  that 
this  foreigner  seems  to  have  forgotten  the  dead  man  and 
woman  lying  shrouded  in  the  room  in  front  of  him,  who 
have  been  his  nearest  relatives  upon  earth,  and  one  of 
whom,  a  beautiful  English  lady,  he  has  just  accompanied 
from  her  pretty  Sussex  home  to  meet  a  cruel  and  violent 
death. 

"  You  won't  have  long  to  wait  for  the  inquest,"  re- 
marks the  man. 

As  he  speaks,  such  masculine  exclamations  of  surprise, 
indignation,  and  horror,  mingled  with  one  or  two  small 
screams  from  women,  come  from  the  Pullman  car  nearest 
to  them  that  Arthur  cries  out,  "  Good  heavens,  what's 
that  ? " 

"  That,"  says  the  deputy-sheriff,  with  a  curious  look  on 
his  face,  "  is  MR.  GARVEY  SERVING  HIS  SUBPENIES  ON 
THE  PHILANTHROPISTS  AND  ROUNDING  UP  FOR  HIS  COR- 
ONER'S  JURY  THE  RAYMOND  EXCURSIONISTS  !  " 

In  this  he  is  perfectly  right.  At  present  a  great  scene 
is  taking  place  in  the  interior  of  the  Pullman  car. 

There  are  two  of  these  drawn  up  upon  the  track,  await- 
ing telegraphic  orders  from  the  train-despatcher  that 
will  permit  them  to  proceed.  One  of  these,  the  more 
modern  and  luxurious  of  the  two,  has  the  car  number  427, 
and  is  occupied  solely  by  a  very  aristocratic  and  digni- 
fied woman  of  perhaps  forty-five  ;  she  has  evidently 
recently  lost  her  husband,  as  she  wears  a  widow's  weeds. 
She  is  accompanied  by  a  charming  girl  of  fourteen  or 
fifteen,  also  in  full  mourning,  and  is  attended  by  a  maid 


74  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

servant.  She  is  in  no  way  connected  with  the  passenger! 
in  the  other  car,  the  magnificent  Pullman  sh»  occupiel 
having  arrived  only  the  night  before  attached  to  another 
train. 

The  other  sleeper,  which  is  rather  shabby  and  road 
worn,  is  crowded  by  a  lot  of  excursionists  whom  the  en- 
ergetic Raymond  has  lured  by  promise  of  a  cheap  trip 
to  the    Pacific  slope  from  their  native  haunts  in   New 
England. 

They  have  just  got  out  of  their  narrow  shell  into  the 
great  West,  and  don't  like  its  course  on  the  Indian  ques- 
tion. Imbued  with  true  philanthropic  ignorance,  accept- 
ing that  half-truth  that  the  savage  has  all  the  wrongs  on 
his  side,  and  the  settler  and  pioneer  have  none  ;  never 
having  seen  the  noble  red  man  on  his  native  soil,  they 
know  not  his  debauchery,  his  worthlessness,  his  cruelty 
— they  are  not  even  aware  that  no  man  who  has  ever 
known  the  Indian  as  he  really  is,  wild,  wicked,  and  lazy, 
thinks  there  are  any  good  Indians  but  dead  Indians. 

And  now  cooped  up  for  three  burning  days  in  this  little 
railroad  station  on  the  Gila  plateau,  they  have  struck  the 
Indian  question  in  full  practical  operation,  and  have  been 
giving  their  views  upon  it  to  the  rage  of  those  who  have 
suffered  loss  of  fortune  or  friends  or  family  from  Apache 
raids. 

This  very  morning,  headed  by  one  Rogers,  an  agri- 
culturist, who  has  never  been  kept  awake  fearing  savages 
on  his  New  Hampshire  farm,  they  have  formed  a  meet- 
ing, arid  are  about  to  send  a  protest  to  Washington  on 
behalf  of  the  persecuted  red  man. 

As  Garvey  enters,  the  chairman  has  just  begun  reading 
the  following  address : 

"  To  the  President  of  the  United  States  : 

We,  the  undersigned,  having  witnessed,  with  horror  in  out 
hearts  and  tears  in  our  eyes,  the  departure  of  armed  bands  of  cow 
boys  as  well  as  United  States  troops  from  Lordsburgh  to  murder  the 
peaceful,  long-enduring  Apaches  of  our  reservations——" 

At  these  words  a  baneful  light  springs  into  the  sheriff's 
eyes,  his  hand  goes  to  his  revolver,  and  did  Rogers  know 
it,  he  would  fall  down  and  beg  for  mercy,  being  in 
greater  peril  of  his  life  than  has  ever  before  come  to  him 


MISS    NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  7$ 

in  his  sleepy  bucolic  existence.  But  controlling  himsell 
with  a  mighty  effort,  Mr.  Garvey  simply  says :  "  Stop, 
stranger  ! — quit  talking  about  things  you  are  as  ignorant 
of  as  a  nigger  !  I've  got  a  supenee  for  ye,  Ephram  Doe 
Rogers  ! " 

"  A  subpoena,"  cries  the  New  Englander.  "  For  what  ?  " 
"  A  supenee  to  act  on  the  coroner's  jury." 
"  Pough  !  I'm  not  a  citizen  of  the  territory,"  cries  Mi 
Rogers  airily.     "  Don't  interrupt  this  meeting,  sir  ! " 

"  No,  I  ain't  going  to  interrupt  this  meeting.  I'm 
simply  going  to  bag  it  for  the  coroner's  jury.  I  got 
supenees  for  every  man  of  ye,"  says  Garvey  in  a  low  but 
determined  voice,  and  he  reads  them  out :  "  Asa  Doe 
Bullock,  Hiram  Roe  Filkins,  John  Doe,  Richard  Roe, 
etc.,  etc.,"  and  forces  a  legal  document  into  the  trembling 
hands  of  each  one  of  the  men  ;  for  he  has  a  long,  black 
murderous  revolver  in  the  other  that  makes  one  of  the 
women  shriek,  "  He's  a  road  agent ! "  and  fall  on  her 
knees  to  him. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  says  Mr.  Garvey ;  he  has  learned 
this  form  of  address  among  the  Creoles  when  a  boy  and 
always  uses  it  in  cases  of  extreme  politeness.  "  Ladies 
and  children  are  always  safer  for  Brick  Garvey's  being 
round ;  so  is  tenderfoots ;  but  these  men  heah  don't 
know  that  the  law  permits  a  coroner  to  git  his  jury  whar 
he  can  find  'em,  and  they  are  going  into  that  room  to  fur- 
nish a  verdict  on  the  men  and  woman  murdered  by  their 
Apache  friends,  and  that  ar  verdict  is  going  to  be  in 
accord  with  the  facts  of  the  case,  OR  THE  LORD  HAVE 

MARCY  ON  THE  JURIES'  SOULS  ! 

"  Ye'll  march  in  ahead  of  me,  gints,"  he  says, "  or  there  U 
be  more  inquests  this  morning. "  One  or  two  of  them 
hesitate,  but  he  calls  out,  "  I  war  given  this  medal  by  the 
Texas  Legislature  for  killing  Injuns,  and  I'd  like  a  dupli- 
cate of  it  from  the  New  Mexican  one  for  laying  out 
their  sympathizers  ! " 

Looking  at  him  the  men  of  the  Raymond  party  see 
death  in  his  face,  and  without  a  word  leave  the  car ;  and 
followed  by  Garvey,  who  keeps  his  awful  eyes  on  them, 
they  step  into  the  room,  where  they  are  promptly  sworn  as 
jurymen  by  an  energetic  young  coroner. 

The  women  of  the  party,  filled  partly  with  indignation, 
partly  with  curiosity,  and  most  of  them  wholly  with  sorrow, 


fO  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

for  up  to  this  time  they  had  not  heard  of  the  death  of  anj 
whites,  and  had,  with  a  kind  of  moral  atrophy,  imagined 
that  the  Indians  were  the  only  sufferers,  follow  after. 

The  lady  from  the  other  Pullman  car  has  just  walked 
to  the  local  post-office  and  inquired  if  the  postmaster  can 
give  her  the  address  of  a  gentleman  living  in  the  neigh« 
borhood  named  Philip  Everett. 

Not  gaining  the  information  she  desires,  and  seeing 
the  throng  pass  in  to  the  coroner's  investigation,  she 
follows,  and  finds  herself  gazing  upon  a  sight  that  holds 
her  partly  in  horror,  partly  in  sympathy. 

Seated  on  one  side  of  the  room  are  the  excursionists 
empanelled  as  jurors  ;  beside  them  Mr.  Garvey ;  in  front 
of  them  the  coroner ;  around  the  sides  of  the  room,  some 
of  the  men  smoking,  some  chewing,  some  of  the  women 
fanning  themselves,  are  the  adult  population  of  Lords- 
burgh,  mixed  with  cowboys  from  the  neighboring  plains  ; 
miners  from  the  adjacent  mountains,  some  of  Smyth  & 
Babcock's  teamsters,  and  a  few  railroad  hands  and  col- 
ored porters  from  the  cars  now  detained  upon  the  tracks. 

Most  of  them  are  in  their  shirt  sleeves  or  dusters,  the 
sun  being  scorching  hot.  Silence  is  upon  them  all. 
Their  eyes  are  turned  toward  a  little  platform  made  with 
rough  boards. 

Upon  this  dais  are  six  quiet  forms,  each  covered  with 
an  ample  white  sheet ;  for  to  the  victims  Garvey's  party 
have  brought  in  have  been  added  the  bodies  of  some 
capitalists  and  mining  experts,  who,  having  come  to  this 
country  to  examine  and  buy  a  silver  mine,  have  been  am- 
bushed by  Nana's  braves  and  shot  down,  as,  unconscious 
of  danger,  they  rode  chatting  and  laughing  along  the  trail. 

So  the  murdered  lie,  similar  and  equal  in  death,  save 
that  a  few  wild  flowers,  gleaned  from  beside  some  irriga- 
tion ditch,  and  placed  by  tender  hands  upon  the  dead 
English  lady,  show  that  she  is  of  the  sex  they  honor 
and  reverence  in  the  Far  West  more  highly  and  more  ten« 
derly  than  in  any  other  land  upon  this  earth. 

A  little  to  the  side  of  these  white  forms  are  the  wit- 
nesses, one  a  sunburnt  cavalryman  from  Hatch's  troopers, 
and  among  them  sits  Arthur  Willoughby,  holding  on  his 
knee  his  little  orphan  niece,  who  has  tears  in  her  eyes, 
for  she  knows  she  is  in  the  presence  of  her  dead  mother. 

Jn  front  of  all  this,  his  eyes  flashing,  his  voice  raised 


MISS  NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  ff 

in  inspired  oratory,  is  Hank  Johnston  ;  he  knows  the  op 
portunity  of  his  lifetime  has  come  to  him  and  he  is  going 
to  use  it.  For  this  man,  like  poor  Frank  Tilford  of  Cali- 
fornia, was  one  of  the  few  men  in  the  West  who  still  held 
that  almost  forgotten  but  magic  art  of  oratory,  the  last  ex- 
ponents of  the  subtile  power  by  which  Webster  and  Clay. 
and  Douglas  and  Prentice  swayed  men's  souls. 

No  man  who  hears  and  sees  Hank  Johnston  this  day 
ever  forgets  the  burning  eloquence  of  his  words  or  the 
vivid  pathos  of  his  gestures. 

He  addresses  himself  entirely  to  the  excursionists ;  he 
knows  no  words  can  paint  a  picture  to  the  New  Mexican 
or  Arizona  pioneer  equal  to  the  horror  of  his  own  experi- 
ences. He  tells  these  sight-seers  from  the  East  of  the 
awful  life  of  men  who  exist  with  the  apprehension  of 
sudden  and  cruel  death  always  hanging  over  them  as 
they  pursue  their  daily  vocations  of  peaceful  industry — 
of  the  mother  shuddering  for  her  offspring  who  has  been 
borne  into  captivity — of  the  husband  reaching  home  at 
night  from  his  cattle  range  or  his  mine  to  find  the  wife 
of  his  bosom  murdered  and  his  children  slain  and  muti- 
lated amid  the  smouldering  ashes  of  his  frontier  home, 
"  You  who  call  yourselves  philanthropists,"  he  cries, 
"  have  grasped  that  mental  '  will  o*  the  wisp  ' — a  half 
truth.  You  have  sympathized  with  the  Indians'  wrongs. 
Now  behold  his  VENGEANCE — on  the  innocent ! "  and  he 
lifts  up  the  covering  from  the  dead. 

At  the  awful  sight  a  thrill  of  horror  comes  over  the 
assemblage,  and  Arthur  Willoughby  turns  his  face  away 
and  buries  it  in  his  hands,  and  many  others  look 
down. 

Then  Garvey  says  in  a  quiet  but  deathly  voice,  "  The 
jury  will  now  inspect  the  bodies,"  and  forces  every 
man  of  them  to  gaze  upon  the  work  of  the  Apache. 

And  they  do  so  with  horror  in  their  shuddering  faces, 
while  some  of  the  women  come  and  bend  over  the  dead 
English  lady  and  weep  for  her  and  pray  for  her.  And 
to  women's  tears  are  now  added  those  of  men,  for  little 
Flossie  suddenly  cries  out,  "  Let  me  pray,  too,  for  my 
dear,  dear  mother  who  kissed  me  yesterday,  but  now  ia — 
in  heaven  !  "  and  throws  herself  beside  the  dead  faca 
that  seems  to  smile  on  her. 

Thift  gives  the  lawyer  an  inspiration.    He  says  quietly 


}8  MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWUK&K. 

"What  would  my  words  be  to  the  eloquence  of 
Child.     She  shall  tell  you  of  her  own  bereavement." 

So  they  swear  the  little  thing,  Garvey  in  a  choking 
voice  speaking  the  solemn  words  to  her,  and  holding 
a  worn-out  Bible  for  her  rosy  lips  to  kiss. 

Standing  up  she  gives  her  testimony  in  childish  pathos 
and  baby  voice  ;  and  tells  how  her  darling  mother,  and 
her  dear  father  she  had  come  all  the  way  from  England 
to  kiss,  had  been  "  shooted  and  killed,"  and  how  brave 
Mr.  Peter  had  saved  her  from  the  bad  dark  men  ;  and 
she  has  only  him  to  be  kind  to  her  now. 

"  But  you  have  your  uncle,  Flossie,  to  protect  and  love 
you,"  mutters  Arthur  Willoughby,  his  dark  eyes  turned 
on  the  child  as  if  he  had  a  great  and  potent  use  for  her. 

"  Bereft  of  parents  the  orphan  turns  to  you,  and  may 
God  do  to  you  as  you  do  to  her  !  "  whispers  the  lawyer, 
und  would  put  her  in  the  young  man's  outstretched  arms ; 

but  she  is  suddenly  plucked  away  from  his  grasp,  and 

in  awful  voice  cries  :  "  NOT  TO  HIM  ! " 

And  they  all  see  Pete  the  cowboy,  who,  some  one 
naving  opened  his  door,  the  heat  being  so  great,  has 
staggered  in  with  trembling  limbs,  and  stands  with  band- 
Aged  head  and  arm,  and  glaring,  rolling,  fevered  eyes, 
his  one  uninjured  hand  pointing  at  Arthur  Willoughby 
who  seems  to  cower  from  him. 

Then  he  breaks  out  again  in  words  that  no  one  under- 
stands, for  he  mutters  :  "  Not  till  he  explains  that  lying 
telegram  that  sent " 

Then  he  suddenly  pauses  and  reels,  for  the  lady  from 
the  Pullman  car  is  crying  at  him  in  a  voice  of  love  and 
horror  :  "  MY  SON  !  PHILIP,  MY  SON  !  " 

Looking  at  her  the  cowboy  screams  :  "  MOTHER  !  MY 
MOTHER  !  AT  LAST  !"  and  springs  toward  her.  Then 
the  blood  bursts  from  a  reopening  wound,  and  he  falls 
senseless  and  helpless  upon  the  breast  that  nurtured  him 
in  childhood. 

For  a  moment  all  is  commotion  ;  next  Garvey's  voice 
is  heard  :  "  Pete's  mother,  boys.  Do  what  she  wants  !  " 
And  they  carry  him  out  to  the  stateroom  of  Mrs.  Ever- 
ett's Pullman  car,  where  the  doctor  again  examines  him, 
and  says  that  his  life  before  hung  on  a  thread,  and  is 
afraid  the  last  excitement  has  snapped  it 

A,  moment  after  they  take  up  the  inquest  again  and 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  Jf 

make  short  work  of  it,  for  the  Eastern  excursionists  bring 
in  the  strongest  verdict  ever  brought  against  Apache  mur- 
derers in  the  territory ;  and  call  for  the  prosecution  of 
various  Indian  renegades,  naming  particularly  Nana,  their 
chief,  together  with  other  persons  unknown  to  them. 

"  I  reckoned  that  would  be  about  your  figure,"  says 
Garvey,  shaking  hands  with  the  foreman.  "  No  man  ever 
seed  Injin  doings  and  didn't  want  'em  killed  quick/ 
The  East  only  needs  to  know  the  West  to  cotton  to  it, 
and  the  North  and  South  '11  agree  better  when  their 
hands  grip  tighter  \  Let's  liquor — all  hands  !  * 

This  they  do  ;  and  two  hours  after  they  all  attend  the 
burial  of  the  victims;  then,  the  road  being  in  working 
order  to  the  west,  the  train  bears  away  the  Raymond 
excursionists,  waving  their  hands  and  shouting  farewells 
to  Hank  Johnston  and  Mr.  Garvey,  who  mutters,  "  Them 
philanthropodists  are  all  right  when  you  put  the  philan- 
thropodie  in  the  right  place."  Next  he  says  suddenly  to 
the  lawyer,  "  Hank,  what  do  you  think  Pete  could  have 
meant  by  that  '  lying  telegram '  he  called  out  so  queer 
about?" 

"  Oh,  some  hallucination  of  his  fever.  You're  not 
going  to  take  seriously  the  ravings  of  a  delirious  cowboy, 
are  you,  Garvey  ? "  answers  Johnston,  who  has  been 
mightily  annoyed  at  Pete's  coup  de  th&dtre^  which  has 
detracted  from  his  own  great  effort. 

*'  I  reckon  you  must  be  right,  Hank,"  returns  Garvey. 
'•  I  stepped  down  to  the  telegraph  office  and  there  war  no 
despatches  for  any  of  them  Willoughbys,  dead  or  living, 
I'm  going  up  to  see  if  Pete's  sinsible  again,  for  if  I 
allowed  thar  war  anything  underhanded  in  the  taking  off 
of  that  pretty  lady  as  has  just  been  planted,  there'd  be 
lynching  round  heah  !  I  don't  like  that  Britisher  critter's 
black  eyes ;  they've  got  too  much  Greaser  in  'era  to  suit 
me." 

With  these  words  the  sheriff  walks  off  to  the  Pullman, 
in  which  the  wounded  cowboy  lies,  and  asks  respectfu'ly 
for  Pete's  mother. 

He  is  met  at  the  door  by  the  pretty  girl  of  fifteen,  who 
introduces  herself  as  Miss  Bessie  Everett,  Philip's  sister, 
and  requests  the  Westerner  to  come  into  the  vestibule  of 
the  car,  saying  that  she  has  heard  of  the  celebrated  Mr. 
Garvey  in  some  of  her  brother's  letters  from  Silver  City 


ie  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE, 

A  moment  after,  they  are  joined  by  Mrs.  Everett,  who, 
with  outstretched  hand  and  tearful  eye,  thanks  him  fot 
the  kindness  he  has  done  her  son. 

"That's  nothin'  to  brag  about,  mam,"  returns  Mr. 
Garvey.  "  I  did  my  duty  by  him  as  I  would  by  any 
immigrant  whose  feet  war  too  tender  for  frontier  boots. 
But  if  possible  I'd  like  to  have  a  little  confab  with  Pete 
afore  you  take  him  East  to  nurse  him  up,  as  I  hears 
you're  going  to." 

"  Certainly,"  replies  the  lady  ;  "  only  my  poor  boy  rec 
ognizes  no  one  now,  not  even  his  mother."     Then  she 
leads  the  way  to  the  stateroom  of  the  car,  where  Philip 
Everett  is  in  delirium,  going  over  his  fight  with  the 
Apaches. 

Looking  on  this  Mr.  Garvey  gives  a  little  sigh,  and 
remarks  in  a  sympathetic  voice :  "  'Tain't  no  use 
questioning  him;  but  when  he  gits  better,  as  I  trust  under 
your  hands  and  God's  marcy  he  will,  jisi  ask  him  to 
write  me  what  he  meant  by  that  '  lying  telegram'  he 
spoke  of  ;  unless  it  was,  as  I  reckon,  only  raving  and  crazy 
talk."  Then  producing  from  his  pocket  the  package  of 
letters  the  cowboy  had  taken  from  Captain  Willoughby's 
shooting  jacket,  and  handing  the  parcel  to  Mrs.  Everett, 
he  remarks :  "  I  did  'em  up  in  a  big  envelope  cause 
they  war  a  leetle— "  He  stops  himself  suddenly,  it's 
hard  to  speak  to  L  mother  of  a  son's  blood,  and  says : 
"  Give  'em  to  Pete  when  he's  better  ;  and  if  he  dies,  look 
over  'em  yourself,  and  if  any  belongs  to  that  young 
Willoughby,  send  'em  to  this  address." 

Next  he  wrings  the  widow's  outstretched  hand  and 
mutters :  "  When  he  gets  all  right  let  him  come  back  to 
me  and  I'll  make  him.  He  war  the  toughest  tender- 
foot I  ever  met.  After  his  doings  of  t'other  day  we 
think  a  mighty  sight  of  him  round  here,  and  some  day, 
when  his  hoofs  get  tougher,  we'll  send  him  to  Congress 
or  do  some  other  handsome  thing  by  him.  Give  Pete 
this  kiss  from  Brick  Garvey  ; "  and  to  the  astonishment 
of  the  Eastern  lady,  he  gives  her  a  very  hearty  frontier 
embrace ;  then  patting  Miss  Bessie  on  the  head,  and 
bestowing  upon  her  a  similar  favor,  he  strides  out  of  the 
car. 

A  moment  after,  with  a  sigh,  Mrs.  Everett  writes  hef 
son's  name  on  the  envelope. 


MISS   NOBODY    Of    NOWHERE,  8 1 

While  this  has  been  going  on,  Arthur  Willoughby  hai 
been  engaged  in  preparation  for  his  return  to  England. 
This  has  chiefly  consisted  in  a  rather  curious  interview 
with  the  coroner. 

This  young  official  he  finds  in  a  neighboring  bar-room, 
throwing  poker  dice  for  drinks.  Entering  into  conver- 
sation with  him  Arthur  Willoughby,  who  has  the  Italian 
faculty  of  being  very  courteous  when  he  wishes  to  be, 
soon  becomes  on  friendly  terms  with  the  gentleman  he 
is  in  pursuit  of.  Together  they  take  a  drink  or  two  of 
fiery  Valley  Tarn,  that  makes  the  young  Englishman 
cough  and  splutter,  and  discuss  the  affair  of  the  morning, 
the  New  Mexican  official  stating  that  it  is  the  "  he-est" 
inquest  that  has  ever  taken  place  in  the  territory. 

This  opens  the  way  for  Mr.  Willoughby,  who  remarks 
that  it  will  help  him  in  settling  up  his  brother's  estate 
if  he  has  an  official  copy  of  the  verdict  of  the  coroner's 
jury  as  to  the  death  of  his  brother  and  his  wife,  asking  to 
know  the  price  of  such  a  document 

"  Five  dollars  to  you,"  remarks  the  official  addressed  ; 
and,  receiving  the  money,  departs  with  Arthur  for  his 
office  to  make  a  copy  of  the  same  and  attest  it  with  his 
official  seal 

This  he  makes  up,  filling  in  the  names  of  all  the 
Apache  victims.  As  he  is  about  to  write  the  name  of 
Captain  Willoughby's  wife,  Arthur  suddenly  stops  him, 
saying :  "  I  believe  you  have  made  a  mistake  there. 
The  name  of  my  sister-in-law,  murdered  by  the  Apaches, 
was  Florence,  not  Agnes." 

"  Why,  the  little  girl's  name  is  Florence,"  remarks  the 
Westerner. 

"  Oh— ah — certainly,  the  child  was  named  after  her 
mother." 

"  Then  I  will  soon  fix  that,"  returns  the  coroner,  and 
promptly  inserts  Florence  in  the  document,  which  now 
reads  :  "  Captain  Thomas  Willoughby  and  his  wife  Flor- 
ence  " 

There  is  a  space  of  some  three  inches  more  upon  the 
line,  which  the  official  leaves  blank,  beginning  the  next 
one  with  the  names  of  the  murdered  capitalists. 

With  frontier  haste  he  had  «heady  placed  his  official 
seal  upon  the  document  before  filling  in  the  names,  and 
as  he  is  making  the  correction,  the  young  Englishman 


8a  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

looking  out  of  the  window,  suddenly  cries  :  "  By  Jove  i 
what's  that  row  in  the  Pioneer  saloon  ? "  pointing  to  a 
gambling  establishment  opposite. 

"  Must  be  a  fight  between  Russian  Bill  and  Patsey 
Marley  !  If  so,  it  means  biz  for  me  !  "  cries  the  coroner, 
and  bolts  hurriedly  from  the  room,  grasping  his  revolver 
as  he  goes. 

The  young  Englishman  hurriedly  adds  two  more  words 
to  the  document  with  the  same  pen  and  ink,  in  the  blank 
space  after  the  name  "  Florence,"  and  folding  up  the 
paper  places  it  in  his  pocket. 

Then  he  saunters  to  the  door  to  meet  the  returning 
coroner.  "  Only  a  false  alarm,"  mutters  the  official  to 
him  ;  "  I'll  finish  up  the  inquest  for  you  now." 

"  Never  mind,  I  have  saved  you  the  trouble.  It  was 
only  the  addition  of  a  word,"  remarks  Arthur.  "  Let's 
liquor,  as  you  express  it  in  New  Mexico." 

With  this  the  two  return  to  the  saloon,  the  young 
Englishman  bearing  in  his  pocket  an  official  record  of 
the  inquest  that  would  have  astonished  any  one  of  those 
who  had  been  present  at  the  same. 

A  few  minutes  after  he  finds  the  office  of  the  notary 
public  and  says  to  him :  "  You  know  the  coroner's  signa- 
ture !  "  "  Certainly,"  replies  that  official.  "  Then  please 
certify  to  that  signature  under  your  seal."  This  is  soon 
done,  for  the  coroner's  handwriting  is  as  familiar  to  the 
notary  as  his  own. 

That  evening  the  train  leaves  for  the  East  bearing  in 
one  car  Philip  Everett,  in  the  delirium  of  surgical  fever, 
and  tended  by  the  loving  hands  of  his  mother  and  sister, 
and  in  another  Pullman,  Arthur  Willoughby  carrying  little 
Flossie  home  to  England. 

As  the  train  rolls  out  of  Lordsburgh,  it  receives  a 
touching  "  send-off "  from  Mr.  Garvey,  who  is  on  hand 
with  a  number  of  his  followers,  cattlemen,  and  cowboys. 
The  sheriff  says  quietly,  "  Pete's  mother,  pards !  "  and 
they  all  respectfully  and  reverently  take  off  their  hats 
and  stand  with  uncovered  heads,  as  the  locomotive  puffs 
its  way  toward  Eastern  civilization. 

Something  like  twenty-four  hours  after  this  they  stop 
at  Pueblo,  Colorado. 

There  Arthur  Willoughby,  though  supposed  to  be  «• 
for  England,  leaves  the  train,  taking  with  him  bfe 


MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE.  J>3 

Sttle  charge,  giving  as  an  excuse  that  he  has  mining 
interests  in  this  state  that  claim  his  attention  for  a  week 
or  two. 

Two  months  after  this,  amid  the  perfume  blown  into 
the  windows  of  the  Beacon  street  mansion  from  the 
flowers  and  shrubs  of  the  beautiful  Boston  botanical  gar- 
dens, Pete  the  cowboy  awakes  to  a  new  life.  The  West 
has  passed  away  from  him,  the  East  is  around  him. 
Hardship  and  poverty  have  been  replaced  by  luxury  and 
wealth,  for  his  mother  whispers  in  his  ear,  "  Your  father 
is  dead,  but  he  forgave  you  and  remembered  you  in  his 
will." 

Yet  his  thoughts  still  turn  to  the  frontier,  and  while 
lying  in  his  mother's  arms  he  asks  curiously,  perhaps 
doubting,  "  I  saved  little  Flossie  Willoughby  from  the 
Apaches,  didn't  I  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Mrs.  Everett,  "  don't  think  of  that  awful 
time ;  it  will  bring  the  delirium  back  to  you." 

"  Not  if  I'm  satisfied  on  that  point,  says  the  young 
man,  eagerly.  "  Tell  me  !  " 

"  Then  if  you  ask  no  more  questions,"  replies  his 
mother,  "  the  pretty  little  English  girl  went  home  with 
her  uncle  eight  weeks  ago,  alive  and  well  !  " 

"  Thank  God  ! "  cries  the  invalid.  A  moment  after 
he  mutters,  "  I  suppose  Willoughby  got  the  packet  of 
papers  all  right  ?  " 

To  this  his  mother  whispers,  "  Hush  !  no  more  excite- 
ment at  present !  "  and  turns  away  with  a  little  troubled 
look,  for  she  has  just  remembered  that  the  documents 
Phil  mentions  have  somehow  or  other  been  lost  or  mis- 
laid by  her  on  her  journey  to  the  East. 

But,  curiously  enough,  on  the  very  day  this  con- 
versation takes  place,  Arthur  Willoughby  is  in  the 
act  of  sailing  from  New  York  on  the  Arizona 
for  England— ALONE  ! 


BOOK   II. 
A   DENVER  BELLB. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

DIARY   OF   A    WESTERN   DEBUTAMTB. 

NEW  YORK,  January  3,  1890. 
A  DIARY  a  la  Bashkirtseff  is  now  a  fad  in  fashionable 

^oung-ladyhood  in  New  York. 

I've  been  dying  to  commence  mine.  Like  Marie,  I 
have  unsatisfied  longings — lots  of  them  ! — but,  unlike 
Marie,  I'm  going  to  get  mine.  Matilde  Tompkins  Follis 
doesn't  fall  off  or  sulk  on  the  homestretch.  She's  always 
got  a  little  extra  speed  in  her,  and  gets  under  the  wire 
first,  most  every  time. 

This  article,  that  I  clip  entire  from  the  Town  Tattler^ 
will  give  my  diary  a  piquant  send-off  : 

"  It  is  .announced  on  the  highest  authority  that  the  languid  young 
club-man,  Augustus  de  Punster  Van  Beekman,  will  very  shortly  lead 
to  the  hymeneal  altar  Miss  Matilde  Tompkins  Follis,  who  lately  made 
her  d/but  in  society  at  the  Patriarchs,  under  the  wing  of  Mrs.  Aurora 
Dabney  Marvin,  the  widow  who  makes  a  business  of  introducing  so 
many  Western  heiresses  into  the  portals  of  the  'Four  Hundred.' 
This  marriage  win  shove  La  Follis  plump  in. 

"  The  young  lady's  silvery  voice  is  said  to  have  attracted  the  imp* 
cunious  Augustus. 

"The  bride  will  look  lovely  at  the  altar  in  a  complete  costume 
of  woven  '  Baby '  silver,  from  her  father's  great  mine,  '  The  Baby.' 

"  MEM. — Were  it  not  for  the  '  Baby '  silver  we  hardly  imagine 
would  come  to  time,  as  he  is  very  exclusive  ;  the  oroud 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  85 

blood  of  the  De  Punsters  and  Van  Beekmans  abhorring  plebeian 
streams,  though  their  family  estates  have  wofully  dwindled,  since  in 
early  Dutch  days  they  swindled  the  Indians  out  of  many  fair  acres 
up  the  Hudson  and  on  Manhattan  Island." 

This  article  from  the  Town  Tattler  is  so  atrociously 
striking  that  I  paste  it  into  my  diary,  malice  and  all,  as  I 
sit  in  my  luxurious  boudoir,  at  No.  637  Fifth  Avenue, 
the  residence  my  dad — I  mean  father — has  taken  for  the 
winter,  having  removed  mother  and  me  from  Capitol 
Hill,  Denver,  to  Murray  Hill,  New  York,  in  order  that 
Colorado's  richest  heiress  may  make  her  dtbut  in  metro- 
politan society. 

I  am  struck  by  the  article — partly  with  joy,  mostly 
with  rage. 

Were  I  not  such  an  ennuye"e  from  my  exertions  at  Mr. 
Mac's  ball  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  last  night 
that  I  haven't  spunk  for  anything,  and  were  it  "good 
form  "  in  the  East,  I  should  lay  out  that  editor  in  true 
Colorado  style. 

Pshaw !  I  am  going  back  to  the  wild  Tillie  Follis  of 
Aspen  mining  camp,  six  years  ago,  before  I  was  sent  to 
receive  a  coat  of  British  fads  and  French  polish  at 
Madame  Lamere's  Academy,  No.  327^  Madison  Avenue, 
at  which  my  younger  sister  still  resides. 

Upon  consideration,  I  shall  take  no  notice  of  the  para- 
graph. I  sha'n't  remember  I  have  ever  read  it.  I  sha'n't 
know  such  a  paper  as  the  Town  Tattler  exists.  The 
whole  article  is  evidently  filled  with  the  malice  that  low- 
bred society  reporters  generally  feel  for  the  aristocracy, 
whose  champagne  they  drink  in  ante-rooms,  and  whose 
dinners  they  report  from  butlers'  pantries. 

I'd  have  the  writer,  whoever  he  or  she  is  (its  malicious 
flavor  indicates  femininity),  know  that- 1,  Matilde  Tomp 
kins  Follis,  am  not  at  the  portals,  but  am  plump  in  the 
middle  of  the  swim. 

Has  not  Mrs.  Rivington  Van  Schermerhorn  and  the 
Misses  Van  Damm  called  upon  me?  Are  not  the  cards 
of  those  society  magnates,  Mrs.  George  Van  Tassel 
Nailer,  Miss  Alice  May  Catskill,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Ross 
Dumboyle,  and  Clara  Jenks  Remington,  upon  my  hall- 
table  ?  Don't  such  well-known  club  boys  (I  can't  call 
them  men)  as  Bertie  Van  Tassel,  Georgia  Remsen.  and 


86  MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE. 

Foxhunter  Reach  drop  in  to  my  afternoon  teas  and  tefo 
hor*e  to  me  ?  At  which  I  can  beat  them  all,  having 
spent  a  £ood  deal  of  my  early  life  on  a  mustang.  And 
did  I  not  clench  my  position  by  last  night,  when,  between 
the  pauses  of  a  landers,  and  drowned  by  the  romantic 
crash  of  Lander's  music,  I  practically  accepted  little 
A.  de  P.  Van  B.  ? 

The  De  Punster  and  Van  Beekman  families  are  in  the 
very  Walhalla  of  the  Four  Hundred,  and  though  Augustus 
— 1  call  him  Gussie  now — is  regarded  as  a  little  off  color, 
as  we  express  it  in  Colorado,  by  the  heads  of  the  family, 
he  belonging  to  a  collateral  branch  that  has  had,  like 
most  aristocratic  houses,  a  scandal  (some  time  during 
the  Revolution,  I  believe);  but  chiefly  because,  ~"ith  the 
wildness  necessary  to  be  a  "  thoroughbred "  (Gu&^ie's 
own  expression),  he  has  run  through  a  pot  of  money. 
Still,  with  the  millions  father  is  sure  to  give  me,  I  think 
the  De  Punsters  and  Van  Beekmans  will  take  him  once 
more  into  the  family  fold,  and  the  Colorado  heiress  along 
with  him. 

But  as  I  gaze  at  the  Town  Tattler  I  give  a  shudder. 
What  will  dad — I  mean  my  father — say  ?  For  little  Gussie 
is  the  most  dudish  dude  in  New  York  ;  and  though  a 
washed-out  descendant  of  the  old  Dutch  stock,  a  maniac 
of  the  most  ultra  Anglo  tendencies. 

My  !  how  dad  does  hate  dudes  !  When  I  think  of  how 
he'll  treat  my  poor  little  Gussie,  I — shudder. 

But  I  don't  care  so  much  for  father ;  I  reckon  ma'll 
fetch  him  round  all  O.K.  in  a  little  time.  It's  Bob  !  the 
brave-eyed  Bob ;  Bob,  the  hero  who  saved  the  Baby 
Mine  from  the  jumpers  for  us — how  sad  Bob  '11  look,  and 
how  he'll  hate  Gussie.  But  it  won't  be  because  he's  a 
aude  ;  it'll  be  because 

Oh,  pshaw !  what  nonsense  I'm  writing.  And  then 
what  11  SHE  say  when  she  hears  I've  gone  back  on  Bob  ; 
she  who  bosses  the  family  ;  my  erratic  younger  sister,  who 
has  a  will  of  her  own,  and  such  eyes ! — Florence,  to  use  a 
Western  expression,  being  a  "  corker  "  ! 

1  remember  once,  a  few  years  ago.  when  ma  for  some 
childish  cutting  up  was  going  to  correct  us  (the  Eastern 
terra  for  a  Western  spanking) ;  she  looked  at  ma  with  big 
brown,  flashing,  blazing  eyes  till  mother  turned  away  and 
muttered  something  and  dropped  her  hand — and  027 


MISS   NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE.  tj 

mother  has  faced  a  grizzly  in  her  time.  I  may  also  re- 
mark that  I  caught  it — I  tried  the  look,  but  it  didn't  work 
in  my  case. 

What'll  SHE  say  ? 

When  I  think  of  dad  and  Bob  and  Florence,  I  cry  out : 
"  Oh,  fashion  and  triumph  and  greatness^  you  are  not  all 
roses ! " 

Pshaw  !  yes,  they  are  ! 

When  I  think  of  what  Sallie  Jackson  and  Lavie  Mar* 
tin  and  other  Capitol  Hill  girls  would  have  said  if  they 
had  seen  me  last  night  dancing  with  a  lord — no  Italian 
barber  count  like  the  one  who  did  all  the  West  up  last 
year,  but  a  real  English  baron — when  I  think  of  the  sen- 
sation that  would  have  struck  feminine  Denver  had  they 
seen  Lord  Avonmere  making  up  to  me  last  night  in  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley,  which  is  the  British  expression  for 
the  American  Virginia  reel  (shade  of  George  Washing- 
ton !  how  English  we  are  now !),  I  can  stand  anything, 
any  one  ! — dad  ! — Floss  ! — Bob  ! 

Yes,  even  Bob,  though  I  am  a  wretch  to  say  it. 

Mrs.  Marvin  introduced  Lord  Avonmere  to  me  last 
night.  Mrs.  M.  seemed  to  wish  to  impress  me  with  him  ; 
so  also  did  Avonmere  ;  he  hung  on  to  me  at  supper  until 
Gussie  got  so  jealous  that  he  spoke  quite  unmistakably 
the  very  next  dance. 

Lord  Avonmere  is  very  English  in  appearance,  though 
rather  continental  in  expression  ;  a  big,  hulking  fellow, 
with  soft,  naughty,  black  Italian  eyes,  and  looks  as  if  he 
had  run  the  pace.  I  mean  to  ask  Mrs.  Marvin  about 
him.  She  hates  Gussie,  and  this  paragraph  in  the  Town 
Tattler  will  drive  her  crazy. 

It's  lucky  she's  out,  as  the  servant  has  just  brought  in 
Gussie's  card. 

Mother,  who  has  come  in  from  Arnold  &  Constable's. 
has  also  announced  him,  for  she  has  remarked :  "  That 
chit's  ag'in  in  the  parlor  ! " 

I  wish  ma  would  say  drawing-room.  It's  much  bettef 
form. 

I'll  lock  this  up  and  11  go  down  and  see  Gussi« 
A-a-ah  !  the  fatal  moment—** 


88  MISS  NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

MRS.  MARVIN,  OP   NEW   YORK. 

THE  young  lady  who  has  been  writing  the  preceding 
drops  her  pen,  gives  a  little  dainty  shiver,  and  after  a 
settling  shake  to  her  imported  afternoon  gown  and  a  hur. 
ried  glance  at  her  charming  reflection  in  a  cheval  glass, 
leaves  her  boudoir,  which  is  a  creation  in  blue  by  Tiffany, 
and  descends  to  meet  the  little  "  Gussie  "  of  her  diary. 

As  she  passes  down  the  oaken  stairs  of  the  great  Fifth 
Avenue  house,  for  the  use  of  which  during  the  New  York 
winter  season,  furniture,  bric-a-brac,  pictures,  and  all,  her 
father,  Abraham  Alcibiades  Foil  is,  the  great  Denver  sil- 
ver-miner and  millionnaire,  has  paid  a  very  pretty  penny, 
Miss  Matilde  makes  a  delightful  picture. 

She  is  a  Western  girl,  and  fresh  as  the  breezes  of  her 
own  prairies,  not  yet  having  lost  the  roses  from  her 
cheeks  nor  the  brightness  from  her  eyes  by  the  all-night 
balls  of  winter  and  the  long  round  of  watering-place  dis- 
sipations, which  so  often  destroy  the  freshness  and  im- 
pair the  beauty  of  our  more  fashionable  Eastern  belles, 
making  them  look  aged  and  feel  old  at  twenty,  about 
the  time  in  life  they  would  be  emerging  from  a  Euro- 
pean schoolroom. 

With  the  daintiest  of  hands  and  feet,  that  charm  so 
common  in  American  women,  her  figure,  though  beauti- 
fully rounded  and  curved,  and  only  slightly  above  the 
medium  height,  has  the  graces  that  come  from  out-door 
exercise  and  the  fresh  air  of  the  Rocky  Mountains ;  of 
which  she  had  had  plenty,  having  lived  a  good  portion 
of  her  early  youth  in  a  tent  when  her  father  was  moving 
about  prospecting  for  mines,  and  in  a  dug-out  when  he 
was  at  a  stationary  camp. 

To  this  true  health  and  beauty  of  person  add  a  very 
piquant,  bright,  feminine  American  face,  with  the  bluest 
of  eyes,  not  of  the  indefinite  kind  of  washed-out,  worn- 
out  womanhood,  but  filled  with  the  peculiar  fresh,  deep 
color  of  the  wood  violet,  that  becomes  almost  a  purple 
when  lighted  by  the  fire  of  passion  ;  a  little  mouth  that 
can  grow  very  firm,  an  inheritance  from  her  mother,  a 
frontier  woman  who  had  fought  Indians  with  her  own 


MISS    NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  89 

hands  in  the  Sioux  outbreak  in  Minnesota  ;  place  in  her 
shapely  head  that  quick  grasp  of  humor,  wit,  logic,  and 
idea,  common  to  the  women  of  any  country  where  they 
are  encouraged  and  permitted  to  think  and  act  for  them- 
selves ;  clothe  her  with  the  dainty  taste  that  characterizes 
an  American  woman  with  an  unlimited  pocket-book, 
when  assisted  by  a  French  artiste  de  la  mode ;  permit  a 
glimpse  of  one  little  foot  in  its  light  satin  slipper  peeping 
from  under  her  lace  jupons ;  cast  over  the  face,  in  the 
changing  pictures  of  a  magic  lantern,  a  little  shuddering 
blush — then  a  pout — next  a  very  savage  frown,  that  runs 
away  into  a  laugh  of  mixed  amusement  and  chagrin,  and 
it  is  the  picture  of  Miss  Matilde  Follis  as  she  trips  down 
to  encounter  so  much  of  her  fate  as  Mr.  Augustus  de 
Punster  Van  Beekman  may  have  for  her. 

That  she  has  a  quick  mind  is  evinced  by  her  rapid 
change  of  expression  as  she  has  descended  the  stairs,  for 
from  the  top  step  to  the  bottom  she  has  dissected  a 
thought  that  has  suddenly  struck  her  vivacious  brain  like 
a  shock  of  electricity. 

Evolved  from  the  article  in  the  Town  Tattler,  it  is  not 
a  pleasant  one,  being  this  curiously  humiliating  idea  :  If 
Mrs.  Marvin  makes  a  business  of  introducing  Western 
heiresses,  where  does  the  money  come  into  the  transac- 
tion ?  What's  the  merchandise  ? 

As  the  answer  flashes,  ME  and  MY  FORTUNE,  the  shud- 
dering blush  has  come  upon  her  ; — with  the  thought  of  her 
beauty  and  her  money  bringing  a  commission  to  the 
pocket  of  Mrs.  Marvin  has  come  the  savage  frown ; — then 
the  certainty  that  little  Gussie  can't  be  a  paying  cus- 
tomer, the  widow  being  so  down  on  him,  brings  the 
laugh. 

She  mutters  :  "  I  only  thought  Aurora  Marvin  a  sponge. 
It  she's  a  speculator,  Matilda  Follis  won't  be  one  of 
her  securities  !  "  And  opening  the  portiere,  steps  into  a 
reception-room  to  meet  her  expectant  fiance. 

In  this  sudden  idea  this  young  Western  girl  has  guessed 
the  truth,  but  hardly  the  whole  of  it. 

Mrs.  Aurora  Dabney  Marvin  is  one  of  the  anomalies 
and  curiosities  of  our  so-called  "fashionable  society." 

Being  left  a  widow  at  the  close  of  the  war,  with  no 
capital  but  what  is  in  Western  parlance  termed  "  un- 
adulterated gall  "  aad  "colossal  cheek,"  she  has  stocked 


90  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

and  capitalized  this  in  social  dollars,  and  has  lived  off  S 
in  luxury  and  plenty,  and  will  so  continue  to  do  as  long 
as  American  society  is  what  it  now  is. 

Beginning  with  no  position  whatever,  Mrs.  Marvin  had 
made  herself  somewhat  of  a  social  power,  by  marvellous 
tact  and  unblushing  assumption  ;  the  first  of  which  had 
given  her  the  entree  into  many  of  the  houses  of  the  more 
exclusive  New  York  set,  and  the  second  of  which  had 
made  her  imagine  she  owned  the  family  as  soon  as  she 
had  got  inside  their  front  door. 

Most  of  her  income  had  been  produced  by  assuming 
to  lecture  for  charity,  with  a  check  from  the  committee  of 
the  entertainment  in  her  pocket.  Her  lectures  on  "  The 
Kings  I  have  met,"  "  Intimate  Princes,"  "  Countesses  I 
have  visited,"  etc.,  etc.,  had  raised  her  to  high  esteem  in 
the  cultured  circles  on  whom  she  had  deigned  to  bestow 
her  literary  pearls.  She  never  discoursed  upon  "  The 
Presidents  I  have  seen,"  or  "  The  Bankers  I  have  dined 
with,"  though  the  last  were  numerous  ;  for  Presidents  and 
business  men  are  American,  and  being  a  snob,  she  knew 
exactly  how  to  flavor  her  dish  with  aristocratic  seasoning 
to  suit  the  palates  of  her  audience,  who  saw  her  two  hun- 
dred pounds  of  robust  Yankee  flesh  surrounded  by  kings, 
princelings,  and  lordlings,  and  fell  down  and  worshipped 
her  as  the  intimate  of  royalty,  with  almost  as  much  fervor 
as  they  would  have  done  the  kings  and  princelings  and 
lordlings  themselves  could  they  have  got  a  chance  at 
them  in  person. 

But  this  lecture  business  not  being  as  profitable  as  for- 
merly, the  committees  of  ladies  engaged  in  charitable 
entertainments  making  wry  faces  at  her  demands,  which 
reduced  the  profits  going  to  the  deserving  poor,  Mrs. 
Marvin  had,  in  the  last  few  years,  struck  upon  a  new 
invention  in  speculation,  for  which,  though  she  could 
not  patent  it,  she  enjoyed  the  exclusive  right — i.e., 
introducing  to  New  York  and  European  society  the 
daughters  of  men  who  had  made  sudden  and  colossa! 
fortunes. 

These  aggregations  of  wealth,  just  at  this  moment,  are 
unusually  numerous.  They  come  mostly  from  railroads, 
mining,  cattle,  or  manufacturing,  fostered  by  that  great 
iniquity  of  taxing  the  many  for  the  benefit  of  the  favored 
few,  that  has  been  practised  in  most  barbarous  aristoc 


MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  £f 

racies,  but  has  been  brought  to  its  perfection  by  the  tarifl 
system  of  this  so-called  enlightened  republic. 

Fortunately  for  Mrs.  Marvin's  ingenious  speculation, 
a  good  many  of  these  sudden  Croesuses,  surrendering  to 
the  insidious  arguments  of  their  wives  and  daughters, 
have  made  an  advance  and  assault  upon  the  society  of 
New  York  and  Boston,  which  has  quite  often  yielded  to 
their  demands  and  admitted  them  to  fellowship  when 
their  millions  were  numerous  enough  and  their  manners 
not  too  provincial. 

Some  others,  defeated  in  their  direct  attacks,  have  with 
masterly  strategy  effected  what  has  been  called  "The 
European  Flank  Movement." 

They-  have  left  Newport,  Lenox,  New  York,  and  Bos- 
ton on  one  side,  and,  crossing  the  ocean,  have  married  a 
daughter,  by  the  power  of  a  glorious  dot,  to  some  titled 
impecuniosity  who  has  been  willing  to  honor  (?)  a  beautiful, 
young,  cultivated  American  girl  by  taking  her  to  his  bed 
and  board,  if  he  received  enough  money  to  make  the 
matrimonial  pill  a  sugar-coated  one  to  his  high-bred  self, 
to  pay  his  gambling  debts,  and  to  gild  his  escutcheon  so 
brightly  that  the  democratic  mud  upon  it  is  concealed  by 
American  gold. 

Then,  armed  with  a  titled  son-in-law,  the  old  couple 
come  back,  attack  our  exclusive  society,  and  conquer  it. 

Thus  the  social  ambitions  of  women  made  Mrs.  Mar- 
vin's American  merchandise,  and  the  necessities  of  im- 
pecunious aristocrats  gave  her  the  European  customers 
necessary  to  complete  her  bargains. 

It  need  hardly  be  stated  that  she  always,  under  some 
understood  or  implied  contract,  received  a  handsome 
bonus  or  commission  on  the  transaction,  most  generally 
from  the  bridegroom  upon  his  fingering  the  money  of  his 
American  bride. 

The  bargain,  plainly  stated  in  its  naked  horror,  stood 
thus :  On  one  side  a  young  and  sometimes  beautiful 
American  girl  (without  much  knowledge  of  the  world, 
mostly  without  very  great  self-respect  or  womanly  pride), 
who  gave  her  fresh  youth  and  generous  fortune  to  the 
po*«e*sion  of  a  man  who  usually  had  destroyed  his  own 
by  a  life  of  dissipated  luxury,  because  he  gave  to  her,  by 
a  desecration  of  all  that  is  sacred  in  the  marriage  cere- 
mony, some  high-sounding  title. 


Her  last  operation  in  this  peculiar  line  of  trade  had 
been  a  very  great  success  ;  she  had  married  the  daughter 
of  a  Western  cattle  man  to  a  blue-blooded  count  of  the 
German  Empire — for  Mrs.  Marvin  always  warranted  her 
goods.  If  she  had  an  heiress  on  hand,  one  could  be  sure 
she  was  true  plutocrat,  and  her  dues,  and  comics,  and 
•viscomtes  were  all  warranted  of  sang  azure  and  mediseva! 
manufacture. 

This  was  of  great  assistance  to  her  in  her  business,  for 
lately  some  fearful  mistakes  had  been  made  on  the  Amer- 
ican side  of  the  water.  One  Oil  City  heiress  had  married 
an  Italian  barber  who  had  palmed  himself  off  for  a  count 
on  her  parents.  This  wretch,  after  taking  his  miserable 
dupe  home  to  his  Italian  hovel  with  a  poetic  name,  a  la 
Claude  Melnotte,  had,  in  contradistinction  to  Bulwer's 
poetic  hero,  given  his  unhappy  victim  the  discipline  a 
Roman  peasant  does  his  spouse — i.e.,  beaten  her  daily  with 
a  vine  stick  because,  forsooth,  her  drafts  from  America 
were  not  large  enough  nor  numerous  enough  to  suit  his 
Italian  taste.  Another,  a  Harrisburg  belle,  had  been 
taken  to  mate  about  the  same  time  by  a  baron  of  one  of 
the  smaller  German  states,  with  much  church  ceremony, 
rejoicing,  and  flow  of  wine,  and  had  to  her  horror  and 
dismay  found  that  she  was  regarded  as  little  better  than 
a  morganatic  connection  by  his  blue-blooded  relatives. 

These  disasters  to  the  ladies  of  the  Buck  Tail  State 
lad  produced  for  the  time  being  a  panic  in  the  foreign 
title  market  that  had  taken  all  the  glory  of  Mrs.  Mar- 
vin's last  successful  coup  to  allay.  No  American  mother 
doubted  any  nobleman  she  introduced  ;  no  foreign  aristo- 
crat that  didn't  have  faith  in  the  fortune  of  any  American 
girl  she  chaperoned. 

Therefore  Aurora  Marvin's  matrimonial  business  was  in 
the  full  tide  of  success,  and  heeding  the  maxim,  "  Make 
hay  when  the  sun  shines,"  the  widow,  immediately  after 
the  celebration  of  the  grand  nuptial  ceremony  that  made 
Malvina  Shorthorns  the  Countess  Von  Hesse  Kimmel, 
turned  her  business  eyes  about  to  find  a  nobleman,  if  pos- 
sible a  little  higher,  a  little  nobbier,  a  little  more  puissant 
-_aan  her  last,  for  her  next  speculation  ;  and  had  almost 
imrr  ediately  found  Lord  Avonmere,  of  Avonmere  Castle, 
Har.ts.,  Beachman  Manor,  Berks.,  and  Oak  Hall,  Sussex, 
in  the  P««rage  of  England ;  or,  rather,  he  had 


MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE.  93 

found  her,  for  that  nobleman  had  caused  himself  to  be 
introduced  to  the  American  widow,  to  her  glory  and  de- 
light, for  English  titles  are  to  foreign  ones  in  the  eyes 
of  Americans  very  much  as  the  flaming  pigeon-blooded 
ruby  of  Burmah  is  to  the  humble  Siberian  garnet. 

Of  course  Mrs.  Marvin  knew  the  gentleman  very  wel! 
by  hearsay  and  reputation  ;  his  escapades  and  adventures 
had  been  of  a  kind  that  almost  caused  his  exclusion  from 
London  society.  But  a  lord  dies  very  hard — socially 
— and  Avonmere  was  still  received  in  some  London 
houses,  though  in  many  of  the  best  of  them  his  card  was 
not  as  welcome  as  it  might  have  been. 

Being  perfectly  aware  that  he  had  tied  up  the  bulk  oi 
his  income,  as  far  as  the  law  of  entail  permitted  him,  and 
having  run  through  all  his  personal  property  and  ex- 
hausted his  credit,  which  also  lasts  much  longer  with  a 
titled  biped  than  with  mortals  of  commoner  clay,  he  was 
now  living  a  by  no  means  pleasant  existence,  pursued  by 
duns  and  hounded  by  attorney's  clerks,  Mrs.  Marvin, 
the  moment  she  saw  him,  divined  his  desire  in  making 
her  acquaintance,  though  both  of  them  were  much  too 
well  bred  to  mention  the  matter  directly. 

The  time  was  the  height  of  the  London  season,  and  in 
the  course  of  two  weeks,  having  contrived  to  meet  the 
widow  at  a  garden  party,  a  reception  or  two,  and  a  few 
dances  and  balls,  the  English  lord  and  American  widow 
became  quite  friendly,  not  to  say  intimate. 

So  matters  ran  along  until  Mrs.  Marvin  one  day  an- 
nounced to  Baron  Avonmere  her  intended  return  to 
America,  hinting  that  he  might  as  well  run  over  and  visit 
the  United  States  during  the  coming  winter,  and  extoll- 
ing the  beauty  and  charm  of  American  girls,  as  well  she 
might.  Concluding,  she  said  :  "  You  really  should  come 
over,  Lord  Avonmere  ;  who  knows  but  perhaps  one  of  my 
fair  compatriots  may  induce  you  to  settle  down  in  New 
York.  I'm  told  your  own  countrywomen  have  not  been 
able  to  persuade  you  to  give  up  bachelor  joys  and  free- 
dom." 

"  A-ab  ! "  returned  the  gentleman,  attempting  a  little 
mock  sigh,  and  putting  on  a  saddish  face.  "  Don't  you 
know,  Mrs.  Marvin,  that  I'm  too  poor  to  marry?" 

"  Nonsense  ;  you  should  do  as  the  Frenchman  doe* 
demand  a  dft  through  your  mother." 


§4  MIS6  NOBODY  OF  NOWHERE. 

*  But  I  have  no  mother,"  replied  the  young  man. 

"  My  poor  boy,"  laughed  Mrs.  Marvin,  "  let  m«  act  as 
your  mother ;  I'm  almost  old  enough  to."  Here  she 
gave  a  sigh  that  was  a  real  one. 

"  And  you  will  demand  a  dot  ?  " 

"  I'll  be  more  exacting  than  a  French  duchesse.  I'll 
insist  on  the  biggest  portion  ever  given  with  even  an 
American  bride." 

u  By  George  ! "  he  cried,  for  even  British  immobility 
could  not  resist  an  exclamation  at  this  pleasing  picture, 
and  Avonmere  had  something  of  the  Italian  in  him. 

"She  shall  be  beautiful  also,  and  young.  You  may 
trust  your  adopted  mtre  to  pick  and  choose  for  you,  as 
she  would  for  her  own  first-born." 

"  Really !  "  muttered  Avonmere,  as  he  kissed  the  wid- 
ow's plump  hand.  "  You  have — awh — quite  converted 
me  to  the  French  method  of  betrothal,  belle  maman. 
You  may  expect  me  in  New  York  in  December." 

With  this  he  made  his  adieux,  and  strolled  out  from 
Mrs.  Marvin's  presence,  knowing  the  matter  was  entirely 
understood  between  them,  though  after  getting  out  of  her 
sight  he  muttered  to  himself  savagely  :  "  Hang  the  old 
woman  !  She  daudled  over  that  affair  and  played  the 
delicate  until  I  had  about  made  up  my  mind  to  ask  her 
point  blank  how  big  a  present  Von  Hesse  Kimmel  had 
given  her  for  his  present  financial  ease." 

Two  days  after  this  Mrs.  Marvin  sailed  for  America, 
with  her  mind  pretty  well  settled  as  to  the  heiress  she 
should  next  sacrifice  upon  the  altar  of  aristocratic  mar- 
riage ;  for  at  this  time  the  newspapers  were  full  of  the 
wonderful  wealth  of  the  Baby  mine,  and  the  number  of 
millions  Abe  Follis  had  already  salted  down  and  put 
away  out  of  it. 

She  had  also  incidentally  heard  from  Miss  Daisy  Ver- 
plank,  of  New  York,  of  Miss  Matilda  Follis's  beauty  and 
ambition,  Miss  Verplank  having  been  for  some  time  a 
room-mate  with  Miss  Follis  at;  Madame  Lamere's  select 
academy,  Madison  Avenue. 


MISS   NOBODY   OF  NOWHERE  95 

CHAPTER  IX. 

• 

THE  "  BABY"  MINE, 

WITH  this  idea  in  her  mind,  Mrs.  Marvin,  very  shortly 
after  her  arrival  in  the  United  States,  arranged  a  little 
pleasure  party  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  visiting 
Denver  in  the  late  autumn,  soon  made  the  acquaintance 
of  the  female  part  of  the  Follis  family,  who  were  de 
lighted  to  know  her,  the  widow's  fashionable  glory  hav- 
ing been  displayed  in  newspaper  type  from  the  Atlantic 
to  the  Pacific  slope. 

Filled  with  delight  at  this  social  windfall,  Mrs.  Follis 
and  her  daughter  proceeded  to  break  the  hearts  of  Capi- 
tol Hill  and  Lincoln  Avenue  society  by  cramming  Mrs. 
Marvin  and  the  New  York  Four  Hundred  and  foreign 
aristocracy  into  its  envious  ears  until  feminine  Denver 
actually  forgot  to  discuss  artesian  wells  and  the  best 
filtrate  for  Platte  River  water  to  make  it  fit  for  human 
digestion,  a  topic  that  usurps  the  place  of  the  weather  in 
that  Colorado  town. 

After  taking  up  her  residence  for  a  month  at  the  Follis 
mans'on,  her  Denver  hotel  being  so  atrociously  bad  that 
she  would  have  been  tempted  to  forego  her  speculation 
had  further  residence  in  that  building  of  magnificent 
architecture,  poor  beds,  and  vile  cooking  been  necessary 
to  its  success,  Mrs.  Marvin  felt  herself  intimate  enough  to 
propose  that  Miss  Matilde  should  visit  New  York  the 
coming  winter,  and,  under  her  chaperonage,  see  a  little 
of  its  society. 

This  offer  was  seized  on  with  an  avidity  that  made 
Mrs.  Marvin  jump  ;  and  the  matter  was  very  shortly  set- 
tled to  their  mutual  satisfaction,  Mrs.  Follis  proposing, 
as  the  plump  Aurora's  house  was  rented  for  the  year,  that 
Abe,  her  husband,  should  secure  a  furnished  mansion  on 
Murray  Hill,  and  that  Mrs.  Marvin  should  be  their  guest 
until  she  departed  in  the  annual  spring  exodus  across 
the  ocean. 

"  At  which  time  I  hope  to  take  one  of  your  daughters 
with  me  for  a  little  European  tour,"  suggests  Mrs. 
Marvin,  as  she  accepts  the  Follis  offer,  and  thinks,  witb 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE 

a  sigh  of  relief,  that  she  has  escaped  for  a  year  all  Ne* 
York  housekeeping  bills,  which  are  of  a  size  and  length 
to  frighten  a  Croesus  and  horrify  a  spendthrift. 

"One  of  my  darters?"  ejaculates  Rachel,  Mrs.  Fol- 
lis,  who  is  a  lean,  angular,  masculine-looking  woman ; 
then  she  suddenly  goes  on  in  a  way  that  makes  La 
Marvin  shudder,  for  Rachel  has  a  backwoods  manner 
of  talking  that  indicates  that  the  vacations  of  her  youth 
have  been  long  ones,  and  her  school  terms  proportionally 
short.  "Oh,  it's  Flossie  you're  driving  at.  Madame 
Lamher's  fixing  up  her  educash.  She'll  be  hardly  ready 
to  take  her  po-sish  in  society  till  next  fall.  She's  only 
seventeen,  I  reckon." 

In  her  horror  at  Mrs.  Follis's  diction  Mrs.  Marvin 
does  not  notice  the  peculiarity  of  a  parent's  being  doubt- 
ful of  the  age  of  her  own  offspring. 

The  arrangements  are  so  satisfactory  to  her  as  regards 
the  elder  daughter  that  she  puts  the  younger  out  of 
her  mind,  for  Abe  Follis,  who  loves  his  family  with  all 
his  big,  generous  heart,  gives  Mrs.  Marvin  a  carte  blanche. 
to  make  their  house  in  New  York  equal  to  any  one's. 

The  only  difficulty  in  her  matrimonial  speculation 
bursts  upon  Mrs.  Marvin's  eyes  the  day  before  the  de- 
parture of  Matilde,  her  mother,  and  the  widow  from 
Denver. 

It  comes  upon  her  with  the  suddenness  of  a  Western 
cyclone,  in  the  person  of  Robert  Jackson,  the  owner  of  a 
fourth  of  the  "  Baby,"  and  superintendent  of  the  same, 
and  considered  one  of  the  best  practical  as  well  as 
scientific  miners  in  the  West.  To  his  bravery  in  fighting 
off  jumpers,  and  executive  management  in  the  earlier 
history  of  the  property,  Abe  Follis,  who  has  been  his 
partner  nearly  ten  years,  owes  the  immensity  of  his 
fortune. 

At  this  time  Bob  Jackson,  as  he  is  generally  known 
among  the  mining  camps  of  Colorado,  is  a  man  of  per- 
haps thirty  two  or  three  years  of  age,  having  the  educa- 
tion and  manner  of  a  gentleman,  though  its  polish  has 
been  somewhat  worn  off  and  its  finesse  partially  blunted 
by  his  continuous  life  in  "rough  and  tumble"  mining 
camps,  ever  since  he  finished  his  Frieburgh  studies  and 
came  to  the  West  as  mining  engineer,  to  discover  thai 
German  theory  made  very  great  and  costly  mistakes  it 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  97 

the  practical  problems  of  American  metallurgy  and  ore 
extraction. 

His  face,  red  from  Colorado  sun,  his  manner  perhaps  a 
little  too  abrupt,  and  his  heart  as  big  and  as  full  of 
precious  metal  as  the  "  Baby  "  bonanza,  this  gentleman 
strides  into  the  Follis  grounds,  having  come  hurriedly 
down  by  the  Midland  Railroad  from  the  mine,  near  Aspen 
District. 

Half  way  from  the  front  door  he  turns  suddenly  aside, 
for  he  sees  Miss  Matilde  a  few  steps  away  plucking  a  late 
rosebud.  The  girl  looks  perhaps  a  little  paler  on  meet- 
ing his  glance,  and  pauses  in  her  occupation,  and  were 
Bob  not  too  much  agitated  himself,  he  would  see  that 
her  hand  is  trembling  slightly  as  she  still  grasps  the 
rose-tree,  unmindful  of  its  thorns. 

Mrs.  Marvin,  who  is  seated  in  the  garden  at  the 
moment,  the  autumn  day  being  a  perfect  one,  as  most 
Denver  days  are,  notes  this  as  she  looks  on,  if  the  big, 
stalwart  creature,  who  has  eager  eyes  and  agitated  face, 
and  is  draped  in  a  linen  duster  stained  with  hurried  travel 
and  plenty  of  alkali,  does  not. 

Astonished  and  interested,  Mrs.  Marvin  opens  ears  and 
eyes  and  looks  on  this  hurried  scene. 

"  Is  it  true,  Tillie,"  he  breaks  out,  for  he  has  known  her 
since  she  was  a  child,  and  addresses  her  in  the  easy  man- 
ner of  the  West,  "  that  to-morrow  you  are  going  East  to 
live  ? " 

"Yes,  Mister  Jackson,"  says  the  young  lady  very 
slowly,  though  she  has  to  steady  herself  by  a  strong  grasp 
of  the  rose-bush. 

And  as  the  formal  address  comes  to  him  and  strikes  his 
soul,  for  she  had  always  called  him  "  Bob  "  before,  the 
brave  eyes,  that  had  faced  the  pistols  of  jumpers  and  the 
thousand  horrors  and  perils  of  a  great  mine,  droop  before 
the  beauty  of  this  girl,  as  she  stands  with  one  white  arm 
raised  to  pluck  the  rosebud  that  is  no  redder  than  her 
cheeks,  one  little  foot  advanced  and  trembling,  two  blue 
eyes,  half  haughty,  half  penitent,  and  a  pair  of  coral  lips 
that  quiver  as  the  breath  comes  panting  from  them. 

Then  Bob's  great,  big,  honest  eyes  are  raised  to  hers 
once  more  ;  pleading  and  stricken  he  mutters  :  "  Good-by 
— God  bless  you,  Miss  Follis  "  and  staggers  toward  the 
gate. 


98  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

A  second  more  and  Matilde  is  running  after  him  and 
has  laid  a  pleading  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  would  offer 
him  the  rosebud  and  call  him  Bob,  and  probably  never 
go  to  New  York,  for  her  eyes  are  all  penitence  now  ;  did 
not  just  at  this  moment  Mrs.  Marvin,  who  is  an  old  so- 
ciety general,  and  has  the  cunning  strategy  and  tactics  of 
a  social  Caesar,  come  hurriedly  up,  saying  :  "  My  dear, 
introduce  him  immediately,  please.  This  must  be  the 
celebrated  Bob,  whose  exploits  the  Follis  family  are 
never  tired  of  praising." 

This,  of  course,  necessitates  a  presentation,  and  La  Mar- 
vin, who  has  no  idea  of  permitting  Bob  another  tete-a-tete, 
goes  into  an  elaborate  description  of  the  sensation  she 
expects  Miss  Follis  to  make  in  New  York  society,  until 
that  young  lady's  eyes  glow  with  triumph  and  again  be- 
come haughty,  and  the  dejected  and  enraged  Bob,  who  is 
a  child  of  nature  in  matters  of  the  heart,  bids  them  good- 
by,  and  doesn't  come  back  again  to  catch  his  charmer 
alone,  as  he  should. 

As  he  reaches  the  gate  his  face  is  full  of  despair,  and 
Mrs.  Follis,  who  has  been  out  for  a  walk,  coming  along  the 
street,  encounters  and  catches  sight  of  him.  She  grows 
suddenly  pale  and  cries  out  :  "  Bob,  what's  the  matter 
with  you  ?  Great  Scott  !  the  mine  hain't  give  out  ?  " 

Rachel  is  quickly  reassured,  however,  by  Bob  giving  a 
melancholy  laugh  and  saying  :  "  You  knew  last  month 
we, had  ore  in  sight  to  last  five  years  ?  " 

^Yes,"  mutters  Mrs.  Follis,  relieved. 

"  Well,  the  developments  since  that  time  on  the  eight 
and  nine  hundred  foot  levels  have  added  two  more  years 
to  the  life  of  the  mine.  I  was  about  to  write  this  to  Miss 
Flossie  myself,  as  she  likes  to  know  about  her  property, 
but  as  you're  going  to  New  York  you  can  tell  her  for 
me."  Then  he  continues  in  rather  a  troubled  tone : 
"  Sometimes  I  almost  wish  it  was  not  so  infernal  rich  !  " 
and  so  goes  away. 

Does  Mrs.  Marvin,  as  she  looks  after  Bob  as  he  passes 
faltering  down  the  street,  feel  sorry  for  the  big  heart  she 
is  going  to  break,  so  that  she  may  dissipate  on  a  foreign 
titled  spendthrift  the  fortune  he  has  risked  his  life  so 
many  times  to  protect  and  expand  ? 

It  would  seem  not,  for  she  regards  his  departing  duster 
with  a  cynical  smile  ;  then  slips  her  arm  in  Miss  Matilde's, 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  99 

and  suggests,  as  they  walk  up  the  gravel  path  to  the  Fol- 
lis's  front  door :  "  YVhat  a  curious  way  Mr.  Jackson  has 
of  talking  of  your  sister's  property  ;  one  would  think  it 
was  segregated  from  your  own." 

"  So  it  is,"  says  Miss  Follis.  "  You  see,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Marvin,  Flossie  is  the  heiress  of  the  family." 

"  The  ^«><rw-of-the-family  ?  "  gasps  the  fat  Aurora  ; 
then  she  grows  pale,  and  whispering  :  "  How  hot  it  is  !  " 
sinks  upon  a  garden  bench  with  trembling  limbs,  for  a 
horrible  fear  has  come  upon  her. 

"  Though  we  brag  of  our  Injun  summer,"  says  the  mas- 
culine and  lean  Rachel,  "the  high  air  we  have  about 
here  ginerally  lays  out  people  of  your  heft.  I'll  send 
you  out  a  fan  to  aeriate  yourself  with."  And  going  into 
the  house  on  her  errand  of  sympathy,  followed  by  her 
daughter,  she  leaves  Mrs.  Marvin  perspiring  and  agitated 
as  well  as  indignant. 

A  moment  after  she  is  relieved  and  feels  better,  for  Miss 
Matilde  comes  running  back  from  the  front  door  with  a 
big  palmetto  for  her  ;  and  gives  the  old  lady  a  kindfy 
fanning. 

Mrs.  Marvin  gasps  a  little  between  breezes,  but  finally 
manages  to  get  out:  "You  say  your  sister  is  the  heiress 
of  your  family  ?  Your  father  owns  the  '  Baby  '  mine, 
doesn't  he?" 

"  Certainly— that  is,  the  most  of  it." 

This  answer  is  reassuring,  and  the  widow  gives  a  sigh 
of  relief. 

"  What  I  mean  is  this,"  continues  Matilde  ;  "  if  I  want 
money  I  have  none  of  my  own,  I  must  go  to  father  for 
it — and  I  go  pretty  often  !  Flossie  doesn't  need  to  do  this. 
She  goes  to  her  trustees.  She  owns  in  her  own  right 
one-fourth  the  Baby  mine,  Bob  holds  another  fourth, 
and  dad — I  mean  father — has  the  rest.  You  see,  Flos- 
sie's adopted;  she's  not  my  real  sister,  though  I  love  her 
as  one,  and  she's  as  dear  to  father,  I  think,  as  I  am  my- 
self. But  we'd  better  come  in,  he's  opening  the  front 
gate  !  "  For  Abe  Follis  is  striding  home  to  his  midday 
meal. 

Running  to  him,  Miss  Matilde  gets  a  hearty  embrace 
and  sounding  kiss,  and  they  all  go  in  to  dinner,  which,  to 
the  horror  of  Mrs.  Marvin,  the  family  take,  after  the  primi- 
tive manner  of  the  West,  in  the  middle  of  the  day. 


100  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

During  the  meal  the  widow  meditates  as  to  how  she 
shall  learn  more  about  the  young  lady  they  have  been  dis- 
cussing. She  knows  most  men  are  more  communicative 
after  dinner  than  before,  and  waiting  till  Mr.  Follis  has 
gone  out  on  the  back  veranda  to  enjoy  the  cigar  with 
which,  as  he  expresses  it,  he  "  settles  his  meal,"  she  follows 
him  there,  and  after  making  herself  very  agreeable  and 
charming,  an  art  of  which  she  has  made  a  study,  she 
brings  the  conversation  round  to  his  early  struggles,  and 
finds,  to  her  astonishment,  that  the  old  gentleman  is  quite 
proud  of  his  rise  from  poverty. 

A  moment  after  she  suggests :  "  Won't  you  tell  me 
something  about  the  member  of  your  family  of  whom  I 
have  heard  so  much,  but  never  seen — the  charming  Miss 
Flossie  ? " 

At  this,  Abe  Follis's  red  face  glows  with  pleasure.  He 
loves  his  adopted  daughter,  and  every  manifestation  of 
affection  for  or  interest  in  her  goes  to  his  great,  big  heart; 
for  the  old  miner  is  one  of  those  whole-souled  Western 
anomalies  who  would  divide  his  last  slap-jack  with  you, 
but  who  would  salt  a  mine  on  you,  or  skin  you  in  a  horse 
transaction,  purely  as  a  matter  of  business  pride,  in  which 
each  man  is  for  himself  and  the  Lord  help  the  cutest. 

"You're  almighty  kind  to  take  a  notion  to  my  Flossie," 
remarks  Abe,  wiping  his  red  face  with  a  redder  handker- 
chief that  he  takes  out  of  his  black  slouch  hat,  and  seat- 
ing himself  beside  Mrs.  Marvin.  "  And  I'll  tell  you  the 
story  of  the  little  gal  and  her  coming  into  our  camp  and 
bringing  the  Baby  mine  and  riches  and  wealth  to  as 
poor  and  starving  an  outfit  as  ever  struggled  for  a  grub 
stake  in  the  Rocky  Mountains." 

"  You  rather  astonish  me,"  mutters  the  widow.  "  How 
could  a  child  bring  a  mine  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  war  only  a  flower  of  speech,  marm,"  returns 
Abe,  with  a  whole-souled  grin.  "  When  I  get  excited  I  grow 
florid  in  my  grammar.  So  I'll  elucidate.  We'd  come  up 
from  New  Mexico.  I'd  been  there  prospecting  something 
nigh  onto  three  years,  with  the  worst  kind  of  luck,  part  of 
the  time  with  Pete,  a  young  chap  from  the  East,  who 
didn't  know  nothin'  about  mining.  He  grub-staked  us, 
and  we  used  to  work  on  the  Tillie  mine  together,  named 
after  my  darter,  till  we  both  were  busted.  Then  the 
Leadville  excitement  still  keeping  up,  I  struck  out  for 


MISS  NOBODV   OF   NOWHERE.  IOI 

there.  Leadville  warn't  no  luckier  than  Silver  City,  but 
thar  I  fust  come  across  Bob  Jackson.  He  was  knocking 
a  living  out  of  an  assay  office  on  Main  Street,  and  one 
day  he  said  to  me  :  '  The  Utes  are  most  wiped  out 
now,  and  if  you'll  take  the  chapces  of  keeping  yo»r 
hair  and'll  go  over  towards  Crested  Butte,  I  think 
you'll  get  on  paying  mineral.  You're  an  honest  man  and 
I'll  grub-stake  you.'  And  after  a  little  we  came  to  a 
dicker.  He  was  to  get  one-third  of  all  my  locations, 
and  I  was  to  have  two-thirds; /for  a  man  took  his  life  into 
his  hands  when  he  went  into  the  Ute  reservation  in  them 
days,  jest  after  they'd  killed  Agent  Meeker  and  Major 
Thornburg. 

"  So  I  took  Rach  and  Tillie  and  lit  out.  Rach  wouldn't 
have  me  go  alone,  and  Tillie  had  to  come,  cause  we  didn't 
have  nowhar  to  leave  her. 

"  I  had  been  travelling  and  prospecting  for  nigh  onto 
three  weeks,  and  hadn't  got  much  more  than  seventy- 
five  miles  in  a  bee  line  from  Leadville,  for  the  trail  war 
awful  in  them  days.  I  was  most  worn  out  with  hard 
work,  hard  grub,  and  no  luck  ;  for  I  hadn't  come  upon 
a  sign  of  paying  mineral.  We  had  turned  up  a  little 
cafton  to  camp  for  the  night,  when  on  a  sudden  we  heered 
a  lot  of  screams  and  yells  that  come  echoing  along  its 
walls,  for  it  had  purty  steep  sides,  like  most  all  gulches 
in  the  Colorado  watershed,  whar  the  scenery  is  powerful 
good  for  tourists,  and  awful  tough  on  prospectors.  '  It's 
a  child,'  said  my  wife.  *  It's  a  mountain  lion,'  says  I. 
1  'Tain't  possible  a  child  could  ever  get  up  thar  ! ' 

" '  It's  a  gal's  cries  ! '  repeated  Rach,  *  and  if  you're  a 
man,  Abe,  you'll  go  and  see  what's  the  matter  with  her.' 

"  So  I  shouldered  my  Winchester,  and,  tired  as  I  was, 
started  up  the  gulch.  Jist  after  I  left  the  pack  mules  I 
heard  the  cry  ag'in.  I  couldn't  tell  how  far  off  it  was,  the 
echoes  being  so  numerous,  for  the  walls  of  them  long, 
deep  cafions  act  like  speaking  tubes  in  fust-class  hotels 
and  carry  sound  a  tarnation  long  ways.  I  climbed  over 
boulders  and  forced  myself  through  chaparral  for  nigh 
onto  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  that  took  me  most  an  hour, 
the  country  was  so  fearful  rough.  I'd  have  gone  back 
twenty  times,  but  every  now  and  then  the  noise  came  to 
me  ag'in,  and  each  time  it  sounded  more  human.  I'd 
travelled  on  for  some  fi  /e  minutes  without  hearing  any 


lOf  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

thing  more,  and  had  nearly  made  up  my  mind  to  about 
face,  as  it  was  gitting  toward  sundown,  and  it  wa'n't  a 
nice  place  to  travel  out  of  in  the  dark  ;  when  of  a  sudden 
I  came  on  a  sight  that  made  me  feel  powerful  glad  I'd 
come  ;  for  on  a  ledge  of  rocks,  sobbing  softly  now  as  if 
her  heart  would  break,  was  a  pretty  little  gal,  her  face 
pale  from  famine,  her  eyes  most  cried  out  of  her  head, 
her  little  arms  and  legs  torn  with  briers  and  chaparral, 
unprotected  and  alone  in  that  awful  wilderness. 

"  Didn't  take  me  long  to  get  to  her  and  speak  to  her. 
At  the  sound  of  my  voice  she  shrieked  out,  ' Oh,  a  man! 
Alone  ! — ALON^  ! ' — and  rising  half  up  moaned, '  Nothing 
to  eat !  Poor  Flossie  ! '  then  keeled  over  fainting  like  hit 
with  a  bullet,  right  on  top  of  the  ledge  on  which  she  stood. 

"  In  a  second  I  was  down  in  a  little  creek  of  snow 
water,  and  dashing  it  over  her  with  my  sombrero,  and  the 
setting  sun  through  a  break  in  the  canon  wall  shining 
on  her  as  she  lay  like  a  little  marble  statue.  As  I 
throwed  the  water,  drenching  her  to  life,  it  ran  from  her 
limbs  over  the  rock  she  war  on  and  washed  it  clear  of 
dirt :  and  as  I  threw  more  water  the  ledge  got  cleaner, 
and  when  the  child  awoke  agin  with  a  sigh  and  I  lifted 
her  up  in  my  arms  I  gave  such  a  yell  of  astonishment 
and  joy  that  it  brought  my  wife  and  daughter  up  the 
caflon  to  see  if  I  war  killed,  for  thar  before  my  eyes 
glistening  in  the  sun,  was  a  mass  of  the  richest  carbon- 
ates and  chlorides  of  lead  and  silver  ever  seen  in  Colo- 
rado. I  WAR  LOOKING  ON  THE  FLOAT  ROCK  OF  THE 

BABY  MINE. 

"  The  next  minute  I  got  a  drop  of  whiskey  from  my 
flask  down  her  little  throat,  and  began  carrying  her  in 
my  arms  down  the  canon  ;  for  to  this  day  I  thank  God 
that  even  in  the  excitement  of  the  fust  great  stroke  of 
financial  luck  that  had  struck  me  on  this  earth,  I  didn't 
for  one  minute  forget  the  suffering  child  to  gloat  over 
the  richness  her  cries  had  brought  to  me. 

"  Half  way  down  the  gulch  I  met  my  wife  and  darter 
on  their  way  up.  We  put  the  little  sufferer  to  bed  in  a 
bush  shanty  I  knocked  up.  and  for  days  and  weeks  my 
wife  nursed  her  through  delirium  and  mountain  fever  and 
pneumonic  from  her  exposure ;  for  as  near  as  I  could 
reckon,  Flossie  must  have  been  wandering  alone  for  three 
or  four  days  before  I  came  on  her  and  gathered  her  in. 


MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE.  IO3 

"While  this  was  going  on  I  got  a  message  through  to 
Bob,  and  he  came  over  like  a  streak  from  Leadville  and 
we  took  up  and  located  the  Baby  mine,  naming  it  for 
the  child  as  had  drawn  me  to  it.  And  Bob  he  argued 
that  she  was  entitled  to  some  of  it,  and  said  if  I'd  give 
up  a  little,  he'd  give  up  some,  and  together  we  fixed  it 
so  that  Flossie  had  a  fourth,  Bob  another  fourth,  and  I 
had  a  half.  And  it  seemed  as  if  the  little  waif  had 
brought  luck  with  her,  for  the  mine  was  a  poor  man's 
mine  from  the  beginning,  that  is,  it  was  very  rich  on  the 
surface  and  didn't  require  a  fortune  to  git  into  it,  as  so 
many  of  'em  do  out  here. 

"  So  by  the  time  Flossie  had  got  her  senses  back  to  her, 
and  could  tell  us  something  about  herself,  there  was  a 
thousand  men  in  that  little  canon ;  and  from  that  time 
on,  mam,  the  history  of  the  Baby  mine  is  part  of  the 
silver  question  in  the  United  States,  and  the  financial 
history  of  America  !  " 

Coming  to  this  point,  Mr.  Follis  smiles  blandly  on  Mrs. 
Marvin,  and  proceeds  to  relight  his  cigar,  which  has  gone 
out  during  his  oration. 

"  What  did  the  little  girl  tell  you  about  her  being  alone 
in  that  wild  place  ?  "  asks  the  widow  with  some  interest. 

"  Well,  nothin'  very  definite,"  returns  Abe.  "  You  see 
she  must  have  been  some  days  a  wandering  about,  and 
the  terror  and  excitement  and  the  pneumonic  knocked  a 
good  deal  of  recollection  out  of  her — she  couldn't  have 
been  more  than  nine  or  so  when  I  found  her.  She  didn't 
remember  her  own  name  at  first,  and  if  she  hadn't  called 
herself  Flossie  we  wouldn't  have  known  what  to  christen 
her.  She  said — this  came  to  us  by  bits  and  driblets — 
that  her  daddy  and  mammie  were  killed  by  Injins,  which 
was  natural  in  that  country  at  the  time.  But  the  aston- 
ishing pint  of  it  war,  she  said  they  hadn't  been  killed  near 
thar,  and  that  she  had  been  on  a  railroad  and  travelled  a 
good  deal  with  her  uncle  or  some  relation,  after  her  par- 
ents was  dead  and  buried,  and  that  the  man  had  gone  on* 
to  shoot  at  an  animal  and  never  came  back.  That  rail- 
road travel  must  have  been  raving  dead  sure,  cause  the 
Utes  were  out  on  the  war-path  right  round  the  place  I 
come  ort  her.  The  only  name  we  ever  got  from  her  is 
Flossie ;  and  from  her  actions  and  style  I'm  pretty  cer- 
tain she's  English  and  a  high  stepper.  Why,  half  my 


tOf  JflSS  NOBODY  OP  NOWHERE. 

Tillie's  culter  comes  from  her  pickin*  up  Flossie's  man 
ners." 

"  And  you  have  never  tried  to  find  her  relatives  ?  " 
queries  Mrs.  Marvin. 

"What's  the  use?"  answers  the  miner.  "Ain't  her 
father  and  mother  killed  and  her  uncle  probably  chewed 
up  by  a  grizzly  or  some  varmint  ?— and  what  does  she 
want  relatives  for  ?  Don't  Rachel  and  Tillie  and  I  love 
her  better  than  any  cousins  she  could  pick  up  ?  Could 
they  give  her  any  more  money?  Ain't  her  dividends 
being  invested  by  Bob  and  me,  her  tiustees,  till  she  owns 
two  new  residence  streets  most  entire,  and  has  a  pretty 
lively  smattering  of  business  blocks  on  Fifteenth,  Six- 
teenth and  Arapahoe  streets,  and  Denver  real  estate  is  on 
the  boom  now  ?  Besides,  don't  she  own  half  a  Pueblo 
smelter,  and  any  quantity  of  C.,  B.  &  Q.  stock,  gilt  edged 
and  silver  lined,  besides  a  lot  of  the  water  bonds  of 
Omaha  and  a  Chicago  hotel !  WHAT  MORE  DOES  SHE 
WANT? " 

"  What  more  does  she  want  ? "  echoes  Mrs.  Marvin, 
rather  overcome  at  his  schedule  of  this  juvenile  Croesus's 
possessions. 

The  day  after  this  conversation,  Mrs.  Follis,  Matilde 
and  Mrs.  Marvin  depart  for  the  more  artificial  East. 

Arriving  on  the  Limited  about  dusk  at  the  Grand  Cen- 
tral Depot,  they  are  met  by  a  young  lady  of  exquisite 
Beauty  and  refined  manner.  A  suspicion  of  hauteur  in  her 
Jemeanor  is  contradicted  by  a  pair  of  brown  eyes,  full 
of  trusting  love,  though  her  lips  are  wonderfully  firm  in 
one  so  young,  showing  character  and  courage.  She  is 
dressed  richly,  but  plainly,  in  rather  school-girl  style, 
though  she  is  already  over  the  medium  height  of  woman. 
She  is  attended  by  an  insignificant  little  Swedish  gover- 
ness who  speaks  broken  English,  and  who  has  been  sent 
from  Madame  Lamere's  school  to  protect  her. 

This  dignified  young  beauty  is  Miss  Florence  Follis. 

On  seeing  her  adopted  mother  and  sister,  dignity  is 
thrown  to  the  winds,  and  in  a  moment  she  is  in  their 
arms  with  tender  kisses  and  cries  of  love  and  joy. 

These  being  returned  with  interest,  there  is  very  little 
conversation  for  a  minute  ;  then  Mrs.  Follis  suddenly 
says :  "  Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Marvin,  I  have  not  presented 
Flossie  to  you." 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  105 

"  I've  heard  of  Mrs.  Marvin,"  remarks  the  young  lady, 
extending  a  perfectly  gloved  hand  with  a  blase"  dignity 
that  makes  the  widow  stare  at  this  waif  of  the  West,  for 
she  has  seen  this  insouciant  nonchalance  before  and 
knows  it's  genuine  and  comes  from  heredity,  not  affec 
tation. 

"  Very  happy  to  learn  that,"  returns  Aurora,  pocketing 
her  pride  and  giving  the  girl's  pretty  digits  a  friendly 
squeeze.  "  Where  did  you  hear  of  me  ?  " 

"  At  school !  Madame  Lamere  is  giving  a  course  of 
lectures  to  the  first  class,  on  the  society  leaders  of 
America." 

"  A-ah  !  "     This  is  a  gratified  purr  from  Mrs.  Marviix 

"Yesterday  she  mentioned  your  name." 

"  Indeed  !  and  what  did  Madame  Lamere,  whose  estab- 
lishment I  have  so  often  said  is  just  suited  to  our  young 
aristocracy,  say  of  me  ? "  asks  the  widow,  very  much 
pleased  at  this  educational  compliment. 

"  Oh,"  returns  the  young  lady  struggling  to  disguise  a 
moue.  "  She  pointed  you  out  to  us  as  a  shining  example 
of  what  tact  and  tenacity  would  do  when  climbing  the 
social  ladder.  She  said  with  Mrs.  Aurora  Dabney  Mar- 
vin  before  us,  no  girl,  even  though  poor,  and  of  no  family 
influence,  need  despair." 

"  Humph  !  "  This  is  a  snort  from  La  Marvin,  who 
wonders  if  it  is  innocence  or  sarcasm  she  is  gazing  at, 
for  the  girl  is  looking  into  her  eyes  with  that  blank  ex- 
pression  peculiar  to  the  English  aristocracy. 

A  moment  after  Mrs.  Marvin  lisps,  "  So  kind  in 
Madame  Lamere.  Tell  her  I  shall  always  feel  grateful 
for  her  complimentary  mention."  Then  she  suddenly 
and  effusively  continues  :  "  You  must  let  me  chaperone 
you  in  New  York  as  soon  as  you  come  out,  my  dear,  as  1 
am  going  to  do  your  sister." 

For  she  has  been  looking  at  the  noble  creature  before 
her,  and  remembering  her  fourth  of  the  Baby  mine, 
her  bonds  and  stocks  and  Chicago  hotel,  and  Denver 
real  estate,  she  knows  she  has  found  another  prize  in  the 
matrimonial  market,  one  for  whose  beauty  and  fortune 
some  ruined  due  or  marquise  or  comte  will  pay  a  large 
commission  ;  and  reaching  forward  she  would  kiss  her 
new  and  beautiful  speculation  on  her  velvet  cheek.  But 
the  young  lady  drawing  herself  up,  assumes  a  haughty 


106  MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE, 

stare  and  remarks  :  "  I  never  kiss  at  first  sight ;  "  and 
putting  up  a  lorgnette  in  Madame  Lamere's  highest  style 
of  the  art,  she  lisps  out  :  "  It's  such  awful  bad  form  yet 
— awh — know." 

A  moment  after  she  has  turned  from  Mrs.  Marvin,  who 
is  gazing  at  her  in  a  dazed  but  admiring  manner,  for  this 
old  lady  cringes  at  times  to  her  social  masters,  and  is 
squeezing  Matilde's  fairy  waist  and  asking  with  eagerness 
of  "  Dad  "  and  "  Bob  "  and  her  Denver  friends. 

Then  arm  in  arm  the  two  young  ladies  walk  out  of  the 
Grand  Central  Depot,  making  one  of  the  prettiest  pic- 
tures that  ever  left  its  portals,  Mrs.  Follis  and  La  Marvin 
following  after,  the  widow  effusively  descanting  on  the 
loveliness  of  thes^i  sisters ;  *«he  younger  so  statuesque, 
the  elder  so  vivacious  and  both  so  beautiful. 

On  the  sidewalk  Miss  Florence  astonishes  Mrs.  Marvin 
again,  for  she  becomes  a  school-girl  once  more,  remark- 
ing significantly,  but  indefinitely,  that  she  must  be  back 
at  Lamere's  by  eight  o'clock  sharp  or  she'll  catch  it ! 

Then  she  leads  her  sister  on  one  side  and  whispers 
suddenly  :  "  Tillie,  how  are  you  off  for  change  ?  Can't 
you  lend  me  a  dollar  or  two  ?  " 

"  Great  goodness,  Flossie  !  Haven't  you  got  your  own 
bank  account  at  the  Second  National  here  ?  "  cries  her 
sister. 

"  Hush  !  Mademoiselle  '11  hear  you.  I've  got  a  ten 
thousand  balance  there,  but  Lamere  won't  let  me  draw 
but  five  dollars  a  week  for  pocket-money.  I  used  to  have 
what  I  wanted  till  I  made  the  whole  school  sick  on 
Maillard's  chocolates  and  she  came  down  on  me.  There 
— slide  it  into  my  hand  when  Mademoiselle  ain't  looking. 
Thank  you,  you  darling."  And  she  gives  Miss  Matilda 
another  kiss,  for  her  sister  has  slipped  a  roll  of  currency 
into  this  pauper  school-girl's  pocket 

Then  they  separate,  Miss  Flossie  going  back  to  tti£ 
tutelage  of  Madame  Lamere,  and  the  rest  driving  to  the 
mansion  in  which  Miss  Matilde  has  been  writing  hef 
memoirs  and  in  which  Gussie  Van  Beekman  is  now 
awaiting  bis  promised  one. 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHKWk  I*t 

CHAPTER  X. 

A  BURSTED   SPECULATION. 

As  Miss  Follis  enters  the  reception-room  she  is  greeted 
with  a  sudden  and  effusive  drawl :  "  Awh  !  Delighted  ' 

My  dear  Matilde  !  My — awh  ! — promised  one.   My ' 

and  little  Gussie,  rising  and  seizing  her  outstretched 
hand,  would  have  proceeded  in  a  languid  way  to  imprint 
the  seal  of  their  engagement  upon  the  tempting  lips  of 
his  fiancee,  but  as  he  gets  nearer  and  nearer  to  her,  her 
eyes  grow  haughtier  and  haughtier  until  their  beautiful 
but  chilly  gleam  protects  the  allurements  over  which  they 
seem  sentries. 

Thus  he  stands  like  the  ass  bending  over  the  thistle, 
longing  to  pluck  the  flower,  but  dreading  the  surrounding 
thorns. 

Perhaps  some  memory  of  Bob  has  come  to  her  to 
make  her  cold  and  formal  to  poor  little  Gussie  on  his 
first  engagement-day,  for  the  young  lady's  face,  which 
has  been  a  bright  blush,  suddenly  grows  white  and  pale. 
She  turns  away  with  a  slight  sigh. 

"  By  George,  how  formal  you  are  to  me,  Matilde  ! " 
cries  Van  Beekman.  "One  would  think  you  did  not 
love  me,  and  I'll  never  believe  that,  yer  know.  Nevah  ! 
Nevah ! " 

"That — would — indeed— be  difficult  to  conceive!" 
mutters  the  girl,  a  slight  smile  coming  to  her  features  to 
make  them  mobile  and  vivacious  again.  Then  she  sud- 
denly says,  for  she  has  picked-  out  her  line  of  procedure, 
and  with  Western  promptness  immediately  acts  on  it  .- 
'•'  Sit  down  beside  me  ! — Augustus,  be  a  good  boy,  and 
I'll  give  you  your  instructions" 

"  My  INSTRUCTIONS  ? "  gasps  Gussie,  astounded 
"Why,  we're  not  married^//" 

"  Certainly  NOT  ! " 

"  Why,  I  never  heard  an  engaged  girl  talk  that  way  in 
my  life — and  I've  been  there  before "  He  cuts  him- 
self short  here,  thinking  he  may  have  been  too  frank. 
And  so  he  has,  for  his  fiances  foot  is  patting  the  Ax« 
minster  rather  savagely. 

"Oh,  you  have,  have  you?"  remarks  Miss  Matildd 


10*  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

icily.  "Then  7  have  not  been  there  before*  and— — • 
Oh  !  what  a  lovely  bouquet."  In  a  moment  she  is  at  a 
side -table  with  a  creation  of  Thorley's  in  her  hand,  and 
whispers :  "  For  me  ? " 

"  Yes,"  replies  Gussie ;  "  I  brought  it  for  you — but  you 
never  give  a  fellah  a  chance — you  drive  along  so.  You 
ought  to  have  some  consideration  for  me.  I'm  not  ao» 
customed  to  be  hurried — it's  not  our  style  at  the  Stuy* 
vesant.  I  know  a  chap  got  blackballed  there  once — 
because  he  talked  fast.  There'll  be  one  like  that  foi 
you  every  day — Thorley  has  his  instructions — and  there'll 
be  a  ring  this  evening.  It'll  be  sent  up  to  you." 

Which  is  perfectly  true ;  for  though  Messrs.  Gill  & 
Patrick  would  not  have  trusted  Mr.  Gussie  for  a  plated 
bangle,  they  were  perfectly  willing  to  send  any  engage- 
ment token  he  wished  to  Miss  Follis,  knowing  they  would 
be  paid  for  it,  if  not  before  the  marriage,  certainly  after 
the  ceremony. 

"  You  are  very  good  to  me,"  murmurs  the  girl ;  "  but " 
— here  a  little  gleam  of  mischief  comes  into  her  eyes— 
"  I'm  going  to  give  you  your  instructions,  just  the  same. 
There,  sit  down,  that's  a  good  boy,  and  listen  to  me,  and — 
Oh,  my  laws  !  OUGH  !  Don't  squeeze  my  hand  so,  I  wear 
rings  !  "  With  this  she  holds  up  to  Gussie 's  repentant 
sight  four  little  red  fingers,  crushed  by  golden  bands  that 
have  been  compressed  with  them,  and  blazing  with  jewels 
— for  Abe  tossed  diamonds  all  over  his  women  folks,  in 
true  Western  millionaire  fashion — and  pouts  :  "  See  what 
you  have  done  ! " 

A  moment  after  she  cries  :  a  My  hand  is  well — stop  !  ** 
and  stamps  her  foot.  For  Gussie,  whose  sluggish  Flem- 
ish blood  begins  to  simmer  under  the  charms  and  graces 
of  his  alluring  fiancee  sitting  close  beside  him,  not  hav- 
ing her  coral  lips  at  his  mercy,  has  fallen  upon  and  is 
devouring  the  little  hand  she  has  held  up  for  his  inspec- 
tion. 

Then  she  looks  very  sternly  at  him  and  again  cries, 
•*STOP!"  in  such  a  frontier  voice,  that  he  faintly  mut- 
ters, "Cruel !  "  but  heeds  her.  Though  it  is  in  an  unde- 
cided sort  of  way,  and  every  now  and  again,  all  through 
the  interview,  he  makes  little  rushes  and  dashes  for  his 
sweetheart's  alluring  fingers,  which  she  evades  with  the 
active  wariness  of  a  mustang  dodging  the  lasso. 


MISS  NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  109 

"  N'ow,  if  you'll  be  quiet  a  moment,  I'll  explain  to  you 
what  I  mean  by  my  instructions,"  remarks  the  young 
lady,  with  rather  a  mischievous  smile  on  her  face,  as  she 
gazes  at  Mr.  Augustus  de  Punster  Van  Beekman,  who  is 
the  same  little  gentleman  who  had  appeared  at  the  Har- 
vard-Yale foot-ball  game  of  a  dozen  years  before,  in  a 
full  blue  costume,  to  the  amusement  of  Miss  Bessie 
Everett. 

He  has  not  altered  much,  only  the  passing  years  have 
made  him  more  decidedly  and  aggressively  English  in 
manner  and  appearance.  In  fact,  he  is  now  what  is  in 
America  derisively  called  an  Anglomaniac.  A  species  of 
imbecile  who  don't  imitate  the  strong  and  noble  points 
of  the  bulk  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  that  have  made 
their  little  island  the  commercial  power  of  the  world,  and 
carried  the  British  flag  in  honor  and  glory  to  the  extreme 
quarters  of  the  earth  ;  but  rather  that  unimportant  moiety 
whose  snobbish  manners  and  affected  caddishness  have 
often  brought  reproach  upon  the  British  name.  A  class 
that  assume  to  be  part  of  the  English  aristocracy,  of 
which  they  generally  are  but  affected  imitations — for  the 
true  representatives  of  the  leading  families  of  England 
are  too  certain  of  their  high  position  to  feel  that  it  is 
necessary  to  be  anything  more  or  less  than  ladies  and 
gentlemen  to  retain  or  maintain  the  respect  generally 
given  to  their  order. 

Poor  little  Gussie,  not  being  acquainted  with  English 
gentlemen,  has  imitated  English  cads,  and  is  now  gener- 
ally a  snob,  though  at  times  he  has  generous  impulses. 
These  do  not  last  very  long  nor  grow  very  strong.  One 
ruling  passion  agitates  his  little  frame  ;  that  is,  adoration 
of  the  British  aristocracy,  and  if  he  can  get  hold  of  a 
Melasst  Englishman  who  has  wandered  to  New  York 
because  London  is  too  hot  to  hold  him — especially  if  he 
has  a  smirched  title — the  poor  little  man  is  happy. 

This  admiration  of  imported  swells  has  been  an  expen- 
sive luxury  to  the  little  fellow,  both  in  health  and  pocket. 
He  has  shown  his  idols  New  York  in  all  its  glory,  paying 
their  spreeing  expenses  when  occasion  offered ;  losing 
his  money  to  them  at  cards  and  paying  it ;  letting  them 
owe  similar  debts  to  him,  and  not  having  the  moral  cour- 
age to  demand  his  due  for  fear  of  losing  their  favor  of 
acquaintance. 


110  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

This  loss  of  health  is  shown  by  various  little  lin  .• 
about  hii  eyes  and  face  that  should  not  exist  in  a  man 
of  thirty.  .This  injury  to  his  fortune  is  perceptible  in  some 
suggestive  paragraphs  in  various  newspapers,  connecting 
his  name  with  threatened  legal  proceedings  in  regard  to 
overdue  tailors'  accounts  and  haberdashers'  bills. 

At  present,  though  wofully  pressed,  he  is  putting  up  a 
bold  front ;  liquidating  only  his  club  dues,  so  he  cannot 
be  dropped,  and  referring  everything  else  to  the  in- 
definite future,  that  under  his  engagement  to  the  great 
Western  heiress  has  suddenly  grown  rosy  with  financial 
promise. 

He  is  faultlessly  arrayed  in  an  afternoon  suit,  whose 
baggy  appearance  indicates  London  origin  and  trans- 
Atlantic  importation,  and  has  an  absent  look  on  his  face 
which  is  the  result  of  years  of  study. 

Miss  Follis  gives  this  preoccupation  a  little  start ;  she 
suddenly  says  :  "  You  have  seen  the  Town  Tattler  ?  " 

"  No-ah." 

"  Then  you  do  not  know  that  it  contains  a  notice  of 
your  engagement  to  me  ?  "  mutters  the  girl,  who,  not 
appreciating  the  all-prying  eyes  of.  society  reporters, 
imagines  that  he  must  have  given  out  some  hint  of  the 
matter. 

His  answer  proves  his  truth,  for  he  suddenly  cries  : 
"  By  George  !  That  Dickson  must  have  seen  it,  though  ! 
—that's  why — I  understand  now !  "  and  utters  a  little 
knowing  chuckle. 

"  What's  Dickson  got  to  do  with  it  ?  Who  is  Dickson 
anyway  ?  "  queries  the  young  lady. 

"  Oh  !  Dickson's  my  tailor.  He — he  called  on  me  to- 
day to  ask  when  I  would  be  measured  for  my  spring — I 
mean  my  wedding-suit." 

Which  answer  is  entirely  true,  though  Mr.  Augustus 
does  not  mention  that  the  aforesaid  Dickson,  his  long- 
suffering  tailor,  had  the  day  before  threatened  legal 
proceedings,  and  had  broken  in  upon  him  this  very  morn- 
ing with  loud  and  threatening  voice,  to  Gussie's  horror. 
And  when  the  poor  little  fellow  had  come  put  of  his 
room,  the  savage  Dickson,  who  while  waiting  his  appear- 
ance had  incidentally  picked  up  from  his  table  and  been 
reading  the  Town  Tattler,  had  risen  with  sudden  apolo- 
gies and  humble  demeanor,  and  begged  the  honor  of 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  Ill 

supplying  Mr.  Augustus's  spring  raiment,  also  hinting 
at  wedding  garments,  to  the  astonishment  and  joy  of  hif> 
delinquent  debtor.  This  sudden  knowledge  of  the  ease 
that  has  come  to  him,  even  through  the  rumor  of  his 
engagement  to  the  beautiful  girl  before  him,  makes  him 
rather  grateful  to  her — for  the  moment ;  for  none  of 
little  Gussie's  impulses  last  long,  the  better  ones  flitting 
quicker  than  the  worst — as  a  rule. 

"  Very  well,"  says  the  girl  returning  his  smile.  "  Since 
it  has  got  out,  I  wish  you  to  make  it  public  everywhere, 
and  if  I  am  questioned  I  shall  not  deny  it  It  will  save 
trouble  and  set  things  right  at  once." 

"  Save  trouble  ?  Your  father — is  not  here  ?  "  cries  little 
Gussie  uneasily  rising  and  turning  pale,  for  he  has  heard 
old  man  Follis  described  as  a  Western  border  ruf- 
fian. 

"  My  father  !  "  laughs  Matilde  ;  "  he  won't  hurt  any 
one."  Then  she  bursts  out  merrily  :  "  My  poor  little 
Gussie,  I  did  not  say  danger,  I  said  trouble.  It  is  better 
every  one  knows  this  as  soon  as  possible." 

A  moment  after  she  turns  away  with  an  embarrassed 
blush,  for  she  is  thinking  that  it  will  be  much  better  for 
"  Bob  "  to  see  it  announced  as  a  certainty  in  the  news- 
papers ;  then  there  will  be  no  danger  of  his  coming  to 
New  York  to  bring  with  him  struggles  between  her  am- 
bition and  her  regard  for  him.  She  would  not  call  it 
love,  now,  not  for  worlds. 

Gussie,  however,  destroys  lengthy  meditation,  by  cry- 
ing out  suddenly  :  "  I'll  announce  it  everywhere  ;  the 
clubs  shall  ring  with  my — happiness  !  "  It  has  just  struck 
him  that  more  tradesmen  in  New  York  than  his  tailor 
should  be  very  sure  and  certain  of  his  good  fortune. 

"  Now  for  the  remainder  of  my  instructions  !  "  says  the 
girl  suddenly,  for  with  this  speech  he  has  made  an  abor- 
tive attempt  to  capture  her  hand  again;  "We're  going  to 
run  this  engagement  on  the  French  system." 

"  The  French  system  ?  What  is  that  ? "  ejaculates  Van 
Bcekman  surprised. 

"  Well,"  says  his  instructor  consideringly, "  the  French 
system  consists  of  extremely  formal  interviews  between 
the  contracting  parties,  always  in  the  presence  of  the 
young  lady's  mother,  until  the  fat — I  mean  happy,  day 
It's  the  proper  European  form — how  does  it  strike 


II*  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE, 

"  As  rather  hard  lines  on  your  mamma,"  murmurs  Au- 
gustus, who  doesn't  seem  to  like  the  idea.  "  I  shall  drop 
in  so  often  and  unexpected,  yer  see.  I  shall  come  so 
early  and  stay  so  late,  yer  know,  mamma  will  be  rather 
done  up  next  morning." 

"Oh,  no,  she  won't!"  laughs  Matilde  ;  "you  don't 
know  mamma.  At  ten  o'clock  she  will  give  you  a  hint— 
at  least  she  always  did  in  Denver." 

"  I  nevah  take  hints  !  "  remarks  Gussie,  who  doesn't 
like  the  Denver  allusion,  with  sententious  sullenness. 

"  No  ?  but  you  will  take  my  mother's  !  Young  men 
in  Denver  never  refused  them,  they  were  so  very 
pointed  ! " 

"  Were  they  ?  "  laughs  Van  Beekman,  then  he  cries  with 
sudden  vivacity  :  "  As  mamma  is  not  present,  I'll  make 
good  use  of  my  time,  Matilde." 

"  Excuse  me,  we  will  imagine  my  mother  is  here,"  re- 
marks Miss  Follis  severely,  becoming  pale  and  red  by 
turns,  but  haughty  all  the  while,  for  this  sudden  use  of 
her  Christian  name  has  given  the  girl  a  start,  emphasiz- 
ing as  it  does  the  familiarity  that  her  engagement  entitles 
little  Gussie  to  assume  to  her. 

A  moment  after  she  gives  a  faint  little  cry,  partly  of 
surprise,  partly  of  rage  ;  for,  inflamed  by  the  tempting 
tnorceau  before  him  that  he  considers  sealed  to  him  for 
time,  Augustus,  who  has  been  working  his  nervous  sys- 
tem up  to  the  proper  pitch,  cries  :  "  Matilde,  how  beauti- 
ful you  are  !  Your — awh — coldness  kills  me,"  and  makes 
a  sudden  dive  for  her  peachy  cheek  ;  but  being  dodged 
adroitly  contrives  to  lodge  his  engagement  kiss  upon  the 
end  of  her  pretty  chin. 

She  would  probably  have  been  very  angry  with  him 
for  this  attempt  at  amatory  robbery,  and  perhaps  would 
have  ended  their  compact  then  and  there,  for  the  assaulted 
chin  has  grown  very  haughty  and  her  cheeks  are  very  red 
and  her  eyes  very  bright,  when  just  at  this  moment  she 
catches  a  silken  rustle  behind  her,  and  turning  suddenly 
sees  Mrs.  Marvin,  who  is  a  very  dragon  of  routine  for- 
mality and  orthodox  virtue,  in  the  act  of  leaving  the  room 
with  an  expression  upon  her  face  as  severe  as  that  of  an 
abbess  condemning  an  eloping  nun. 

This  is  a  case  that  will  admit  of  no  misunderstanding, 
In  two  antelope  glides  Matilde  is  beside  the  widow's  re 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  llj 

treating  figure,  speaking  as  she  conies  :  "  My  dear  Mrs. 
Marvin,  as  my  chaperone  in  New  York  society,  I  owe  you 
my  confidence  as  well  as  I  do  my  mother.  Permit  me  to 
introduce  to  you  Mr.  Van  Beekman,  as  the  gentleman  to 
whom  I  am  engaged,  and  whose  name  I  some  day  expect 
to  bear — as  my  own." 

Then  the  iron  enters  Aurora's  soul — the  expression  of 
outraged  virtue  changes  for  one  moment  to  that  of  rage, 
misery,  and  almost  despair.  That  is  when  her  back  is 
towards  Miss  Follis  ;  then  conquering  her  rage  and 
choking  down  her  misery,  this  wily  old  diplomat  turns — 
a  sickly  smile  runs  over  her  wrinkles,  and  by  the  time 
Matilde  sees  her  face  it  is  almost  good-natured.  She 
contrives  to  mutter  :  "  My  dear,  you  surprise  me.  Mr. 
Van  Beekman,  my — my  congratulations.  I — I  know  the 
true  value  of  the  prize  you  have  won."  Though  as  she 
thoroughly  realizes  this  last,  the  words  seem  to  falter 
and  linger  among  her  false  teeth  till  they  fill  her  mouth 
and  nearly  choke  her. 

"  So  glad  you  like  the  idea  !  "  murmurs  Gussie.  Then 
he  says  suddenly :  "  But  I  must  bid  you  good-bye.  I 
have  to  call  upon  Phil  Everett  and  his  sister — old  college 
chum — one  of  Boston's  heavy  capitalists,  and  heavy 
swells  now — Beacon-street  family,  Plymouth  Rock — • 
Puritan  fathers — all  that  sort  of  thing,  yer  know. 
They're  to  spend  a  month  or  two  heah.  Have  brought 
with  them  the  catch  of  the  season,  Grousemoor,  very  rich, 
and  a  string  of  titles  as  long  as  his  rent-roll.  He  has 
some  investments  with  Phil  on  this  side  the  pond,  but 
before  they  let  him  loose  among  our  New  York  belles, 
Bessie  Everett,  the  little  Boston  girl,  hooked  him-  for  her- 
self. These  demure  Puritan  maidens  know  a  thing  or 
two,  I  can  tell  you.  You  are  acquainted  with  Grouse- 
moor,  I  believe,  Mrs.  Marvin  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returns  Aurora,  haughtily.  **  I  knew  him 
first  as  Lord  John  Heather ;  next  after  the  death  of  his 
elder  brother,  as  Viscount  Blackgame  ;  and  now  since  the 
demise  of  his  father,  as  the  Marquis  of  Grousemoor.  He 
has  been  very  attentive  to  me  on  my  annual  visits  to  Eng- 
land. I  spent  a  week  at  Heather  Castle,  one  of  his  places 
in  Scotland.  You  will  see  I  make  mention  of  him  in  my 
lecture  on  '  Titled  Intimates.' " 

"Awn,  then  I'll  mention  you  to  him."  murmurs  Gussie. 


114  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

A  second  after  he  lisps:  " Au  revoir  till  to-morrow. 
Look  out  for  the  ring,  don't  yer  know,  Matilde,"  and 
taking  a  hurried  kiss  of  his  fiances  outstretched  hand, 
Mr.  Augustus  proceeds  on  his  way  in  pursuit  of  the 
Everetts  and  Lord  Grousemoor. 

For  a  moment  the  two  women  gaze  at  each  other  ; 
then  the  elder  impulsively  says  :  "  My  dear,  I  hope  you'll 
be  happy  !  "  and  kisses  the  Western  heiress. 

"  I'm  very  glad  you're  pleased,  Mrs.  Marvin,"  returns 
Matilde. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  murmurs  the  widow.  "  But  it's  hardly  the 
match  I  had  imagined  you  would  make  with  your  attrac- 
tions and  social  success  this  season.  Why,  Avonmere, 
who  is  also  an  English  lord  and  great  catch,  told  me 
confidentially  to-day  that  you  were  the  most  beauti- 
ful woman  he  had  met  in  America.  There,  don't  blush 
• — though  it  is  very  becoming." 

And  planting  this  idea  in  the  young  lady's  ambitions 
brain,  La  Marvin  leaves  her  and  goes  up-stairs  to  her 
room.  Then  locking  the  door,  this  poor  old  lady  ap- 
pears dazed,  for  she  mutters  to  herself :  "  The  girl 
fool !  The  Colorado  imbecile  !  Who'd  have  thought 
an  heiress  would  ever  want  to  marry  an  American?"  as 
if  such  an  idea  could  never  have  entered  a  sane  mind. 
Yet,  all  the  time  she  is  trying  to  think  if  there  is  any 
chance  of  her  getting  money  from  little  Van  Beekman 
for  bringing  his  prize  from  the  West  for  him.  A 
moment's  consideration  drives  away  such  hope  from 
her  mind.  She  knows  the  commercial  Flemish  blood 
that  flows  in  his  veins.  He'll  never  pay  for  something 
he  has  already  won. 

Then,  this  idea  bringing  dismay  to  her,  she  begins  to  cry 
out,  "  That  lazy  lord  ! — lingering  six  weeks  in  England 
after  the  appointed  time,  till  that  little  Dutch  pauper 
sneaked  in  and  got  his  paws  on  the  prize.  Has  he  ? — 
Has  he  1 — HAS  HE  ?  I'll  circumvent  him  at  the  church 
door  !  Oh,  my  heaven  !  won't  Avonmere  be  savage  ! 
How  shall  I  tell  him  ? — How  ? — Oh  my  !  o-o-oh  !  "  and 
she  sobs  and  wrings  her  hands  and  stamps  her  feet  till 
the  tears  run  down  her  poor  old  cheeks  in  torrents,  mak- 
ing fearful  havoc  among  the  powder  that  covers  a  too 
great  natural  redness  of  complexion. 

For  Mrs.  Marvin  had  this  very  afternoon  met  Lord 


MISS  NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  IIj 

Avonmere  at  a  reception,  and  after  hearing  him  drawl  out 
that  Tillie  Follis  is  a  captivating  little  minx — one  that 
he  wouldn't  mind  marrying  if  the  treasure  was  enough 
and  to  spare — had  whispered  to  him,  "  She  is  the  girl" 

Then,  riding  up-town  in  her  brougham,  she  had  giver 
him  an  inventory  of  Abe  Follis's  wealth  and  had  des- 
canted upon  the  immense  settlement  her  listener  might 
obtain  with  the  heiress. 

On  this  Avonmere  had  become  enthusiastic,  for  the 
novelty  of  Matilde's  vivacious  beauty  and  piquant  spirit 
had  quite  caught  the  Italian  part  of  his  nature,  and,  the 
day  being  cold,  he  had  abstractedly  marked  with  his 
finger  upon  the  frosted  window  of  the  brougham  before 
him,  "Five  per  cent.,"  then  looked  inquiringly  at  La 
Marvin.  A  moment  after,  in  a  brown  study,  she  had 
scraped  with  her  fan  in  the  dim  moisture  of  the  glass  in 
front  of  her,  *'  Ten  per  cent." 

And  they  had  carried  this  business  on,  till  the  pane  the 
lord  sat  opposite  was  all  "  Five  per  cents.,"  and  the  glass 
facing  the  widow  was  a  mass  of  "  Ten  per  cents.,"  when 
suddenly  he  had  grinned  and  marked,  "  Seven  and  a  half 
per  cent., "and  she  had  smiled  and  inscribed, " Seven  and 
a  half  per  cent.,"  and  they  had  both  shaken  hands,  but 
i. either  said  a  word  over  this  speculation  in  an  American 
heiress,  that  has  just  been  bursted  by  the  despised  little 
Augustus  de  Punster  Van  Beekman. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AN   EVENING    ON    FIFTH    AVEMUE. 

THAT  evening  Lord  Avonmere  calls ;  his  card  fa 
brought  to  Mrs.  Marvin,  for  whom  he  asks.  She  is 
in  her  room  with  a  headache,  produced  by  the  revela- 
tion of  the  afternoon.  But  this  old  lady,  who  has  some- 
thing of  the  Napoleon  in  her  disposition,  ignoring  her 
neuralgia  and  replacing  her  powder,  conies  down  to  meet 
her  English  customer ;  omitting,  however,  to  bring  her 
wares  with  her,  though  they  are  within  call — Miss  Follis 
not  feeling  in  form  for  any  evening  entertainment  after 
the  long-drawn-out  ball  of  the  night  before. 


Il6  MISS  NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

So,  entering  the  same  reception-room  where  Matilde 
had  given  little  Gussie  his  instructions,  she  strides  up  to 
Avonmere  and  tells  him  the  sudden  obstacle  that  has 
come  between  him  and  the  heiress. 

This  gentleman,  in  his  conventional  evening  dress, 
would  look  a  typical  Englishman,  were  it  not  for  his  very 
dark  hair,  that  has  a  romantic  curl  in  it,  and  his  black 
eyes,  that  never  look  one  straight  in  the  face  and  seem 
always  seeking  something  that  they  never  find.  His 
speech  and  bearing  are  nonchalant  and  British,  and  never 
more  so  than  when  he  hears  this  news,  that  is  even  more 
ominous  to  him  than  Mrs.  Marvin  imagines ;  for  he 
knows  perfectly  well  that  he  must  marry  some  heiress, 
— and  she  must  be  an  exceptional  one,  who  brings  him 
millions — and  that  very  soon,  if  he  would  ever  hope  to 
go  back  and  assume  his  station  in  the  London  world 
which  is  his  delight  and  existence. 

He  listens  to  the  widow  calmly  while  she  reproaches 
him  for  not  having  been  in  New  York  sooner — she  had 
expected  him  in  the  middle  of  November,  and  he  only 
came  just  before  the  New  Year.  Then  she  gives  him 
an  aphorism :  "  In  matters  of  business  punctuality  is 
necessary  to  success." 

"Quite  true,  my  dear  madam,"  he  replies.  "In  mat- 
ters of  business  money  also  is  necessary  to  success,  and  I 
couldn't  raise  the  funds  for  a  proper  appearance  before. 
Egad  !  you  wouldn't  have  cared  for  me  to  borrow  from 
you  on  the  very  day  of  my  arrival, — would  you  ?  " 

To  this  potent  question  the  widow  gives  an  affrighted 
shiver  and  nervous  but  decided  "  No  !  " 

"You  need  not  fear  any  immediate  appeal  to  your 
bank  account !  "  he  says,  with  a  slight  sneer  and  mock- 
ing laugh.  "  Before  I  left  England  I  took  care  to  pro* 
vide  myself  for  the  New  York  campaign — I  mortgaged 
my  heiress  in  advance — I  raised  the  money  on  your 
credit ! " 

At  this  Mrs.  Marvin  grows  very  pale  and  whispers  : 
**  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

*'  Nothing  to  frighten  you,"  he  laughs.  "  I  was  unable 
to  borrow  the  necessary  funds  on  my  own  promise  to 
marry  an  heiress  ;  Messrs.  Pharisee  and  Sadducee  doubted 
my  success  unaided,  but  when  I  told  them  that  you  were 
engaged  in  the  transaction,  they  came  up  with  ready 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  I  f- 

promptness  and  alacrity — young  Ikey  Sadducee  remarking 
that  '  Your  heiresses  were  as  good  as  bullion.'  They'd 
handled  some  of  the  Hesse  Kimmel  paper,  and  had  re- 
ceived old  Shorthorn's  checks  for  same  and  interest." 

"  A — ah  !  "  murmurs  his  listener,  quite  relieved  and 
rather  flattered  ;  for  she  had  horrible  fears  that  he  had 
dipped  her  signature  across  a  bill  or  some  other  enor- 
mity of  that  kind. 

After  a  moment's  consideration,  he  continues  quietly  : 
"  I  don't  apprehend  much  difficulty  in  getting  rid  of 
little  Augustus — the  young  lady  seems  quite  taken  with 
my  attentions — most  American  girls  rather  dote  on  lords. 
Couldn't  you  contrive  for  me  to  see  Miss  Follis  this 
evening  ? — and  from  her  we  may  judge  how  best  to  trim 
our  sails." 

"  I  think  I  can  arrange  that,"  remarks  his  coadjutor. 
And,  asking  him  to  excuse  her,  she  goes  off  in  quest  of 
Matilde. 

A  few  moments  after  she  returns  and,  taking  his  arm, 
leads  him  to  the  library,  where  Miss  Follis,  with  a  frank 
smile  and  outstretched  hand,  awaits  him. 

The  girl  says :  "  I  asked  Mrs.  Marvin  to  bring  you 
here,  Lord  A  von  mere  ;  it's  much  more  cosey  than  that 
dreary,  big  room.  Mother  is  tired  after  last  night,  so  I 
cannot  have  the  pleasure  of  presenting  you  to  her ;  and 
Mrs.  Marvin " 

"  Will  be  your  chaperone  this  evening,"  remarks  the 
widow  very  pleasantly,  for  Avonmere's  calm  reception  of 
her  bad  news  has  restored  her  confidence. 

So  the  three  sit  down  and  pass  a  very  enjoyable  hour, 
Aurora  pretending  to  occupy  herself  looking  at  some  new 
music  lately  sent  home  to  Miss  Follis,  though  she  can't 
read  a  note,  while  the  other  two  go  into  rather  a  fete 
d-tete,  Avonmere  using  all  his  powers  of  language  and 
charm  of  manner  to  put  himself  on  intimate  and  friendly 
terms  with  the  young  lady  ;  and  no  man  had  greater  re 
sources  of  the  kind  when  he  chose  to  bring  them  to  his 
aid.  He  has  travelled  a  good  deal ;  and  when  he  wishes 
can  assume  a  lighter  and  more  fluent  style  of  conver- 
sation than  is  usually  given  to  Englishmen,  this  last  being 
his  inheritance  from  an  Italian  mother. 

A  very  short  time  convinces  him  of  the  girl's  social 
ambition,  she  confessing  to  him  in  excited  Western  slang, 


B¥$  MKSS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

that  she  is  not  accustomed  to  take  a  back  seat  and  hai 
made  up  her  mind  to  be  at  the  top  of  the  society  heap  in 
New  York. 

"  At  the  top  in  New  York,  Miss  Follis ! "  he  lisps — 
"Is  not  that  rather  a  poor  ambition  ior you  when  there  is 
a  London  and  a  Paris  ? "  With  this  he  goes  into  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  beauties  and  pleasures  of  European  aristocratic 
life,  mentioning  lords  and  ladies,  dukes  and  duchesses, 
with  the  easy  freedom  of  one  who  has  met  them  on  an 
equal  footing.  On  this  the  young  lady's  imagination, 
that  has  been  properly  prepared  for  the  seed  he  is  sowing, 
becomes  excited  ;  she  begins  to  think  an  American  triumph 
but  a  poor  one,  and  New  York  and  Newport  by  no  means 
so  fine  as  London  or  Trouville,  a  common  mistake  to  un- 
travelled  Americans. 

Having  got  her  to  this  feeling,  Avonmere  adroitly 
changes  the  subject  to  one  upon  which  Matilde  can  do 
the  talking,  and  from  being  a  brilliant  expounder  be- 
comes an  attentive  listener,  simply  mentioning  that  when 
he  was  quite  a  boy  he  visited  New  Mexico,  Colorado,  and 
the  far  West,  as  Miss  Follis  gives  him  a  dissertation  on 
her  life  in  Denver. 

This  he  finds  very  easy  work,  as  the  girl  grows  ani- 
mated and  much  more  beautiful ;  for  Matilde  is  at  her 
best  when  in  action.  So  he  sits  in  a  lazy  Italian  way, 
looking  at  a  very  pretty  picture. 

Miss  Follis  is  in  a  white  evening  gown,  with  just  a  dash 
of  color  knotted  about  her  lithe  waist ;  her  bare,  white 
arms,  moving  in  graceful  gestures  to  emphasize  the  tale 
she  is  telling ;  her  snowy  shoulders  dimpled  by  each 
rhange  of  pose  in  head  and  body,  while  her  blue  eyes 
(lash  with  vivacious  fire,  save  once  or  twice  when  they 
meet  his  own.  Then  they  droop,  but  grow  darker  and 
a  slight  blush  conies  over  her  cheeks. 

A  moment  later  Matilde  says,  "  You  say  you  were 
once  in  Colorado — see  if  you  can  recognize  any  of  its 
scenery,"  and  turns  to  a  photographic  portfolio  near  her. 
For  ^Avonmere,  looking  at  this  beauty,  has  got  something 
in  his  own  Italian  orbs  that  makes  the  girl  restless  under 
his  gaze  ;  and  try  how  he  will,  he  can't  keep  the  passion 
out  of  them.  He  has  even  forgotten  the  Follis's  millions 
in  looking  at  the  Follis's  charms  and  graces. 

He  moves  near  her  and  assumes  to  examine  the  pict- 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOW  HERS.  119 

ares.  Mrs.  Marvin  gives  an  inward  chuckle,  and  think 
to  herself,  "  I  could  have  got  ten  per  cent,  commission 
now,"  as  she  notes  with  her  watchful  old  eyes  that  Avon- 
mere,  standing  a  little  behind  the  girl,  is  giving  his 
attention  to  Matilde's  glowing  beauty  rather  than  to  the 
stock  photographs  of  Colorado  scenery  she  has  placed 
on  exhibition. 

But  suddenly,  the  widow's  wary  glance  catches  sight 
of  Avonmere's  face,  and  it  is  as  pale  as  if  all  the  blood 
in  his  body  had  rushed  to  his  heart  Miss  Follis  has  in 
her  pretty  hands  a  photograph. 

He  takes  this  from  her,  and  Aurora  can  see  his  own 
hands  tremble  a  little  as  they  hold  it,  and  that  his  eyes 
have  a  curious  troubled  expression  in  them,  as  he 
asks  rather  faintly,  "What  place  is  this?"  and  Matilde 
answers,  "That — that  is  the  celebrated  canon  of  the 
Baby  mine.  No  one  could  look  at  those  twin  peaks 
at  the  head  of  it,  covered  with  eternal  snow,  and  ever  for- 
get it ! " 

"  No, — no  one  ever  could  !  "  he  mutters,  and  gives  the 
picture  hurriedly  back  to  her  as  if  anxious  to  get  it  out 
of  his  sight. 

A  moment  or  two  after  this,  Avonmere  remarks  that 
he  must  say  good-bye  ;  and  Miss  Follis  bidding  him 
adieu  becomes  quite  cordial,  telling  him  she  has  tea 
every  Wednesday  afternoon,  and  also  remarking  sh» 
will  be  happy,  and  she  knows  her  mother  will  be 
pleased,  if  he  will  drop  in  whenever  he  finds  no  better 
amusement. 

Bowing  his  acknowledgments  and  saying  adieu  to 
Mrs.  Marvin,  he  passes  into  the  halL 

When  making  some  excuse  of  a  forgotten  message,  the 
widow  follows  him,  and  the  footman  being  busy  with  the 
front  door,  he  whispers  to  her  with  British  confidence, 
"  Have  no  fear,  I  shall  make  myself  intimate  with 
young  Van  Beekman  and  find  a  way  to  his  undoing  " 

"  But  if  you  don't  ?  "  she  asks  anxiously. 

"If  I  don't?"  he  laughs,  next  suddenly  mutters,  Ital- 
ian passion  coming  into  his  eyes,  "  But  I  will!  Id  ruwe 
that  beauty  were  she  no  engaged  girl,  but  had  Van  Beek- 
man's  wedding-ring  upon  her  finger." 

*'  Don't  let  me  hear  another  such  word  from  your  lips!" 
cries  Mrs.  Marvin,  growing  very  red  "  Remember,  sic 


I  JO  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

I  am  your  mother  in  this  affair — and  an  American  witii 
American  principles!  "  For  this  lady,  though  she  trades 
in  heiresses,  is  of  Bpadicea-like  but  conventional  virtue, 
and  holds  the  wedding-ring  very  sacred,  though  it  some- 
times covers  a  multitude  of  sins. 

At  this  he  gives  a  little  laugh  and  says,  "  I  thought  it 
was  understood  this  affair  was  to  be  conducted  by  you 
on  the  French  system ;  why  not  carry  into  it  Parisian 
ethics  also,  belle  maman?"  Then  with  a  little  laugh  on 
his  mobile  features  he  gives  the  flunky  at  the  hall  dooi 
a  liberal  tip,  believing  it  is  always  convenient  to  stand 
well  with  the  servitors  in  any  house  he  has  an  interest  ia 
and  strolls  down  the  brown-stone  steps  on  to  Fifth  Ave 
nue  ;  leaving  Mrs.  Marvin  looking  after  him  and  thinking, 
"  The  horrid  foreign  wretch  !  if  I'd  known  he  would  fall 
in  love  with  the  girl,  I  could  have  got  fifteen  per  cent, 

A  moment  after  she  says  very  haughtily  to  the  footman 
who  has  been  gazing  at  her  Boadicea  expression  with 
open  mouth,  "  What  are  you  looking  at,  sir  ?  Close  the 
door  at  once.  Do  you  want  to  freeze  me  ?  "  and  strides 
back  to  the  library  to  find  Miss  Follis  looking  at  a  big 
diamond  on  her  engagement  finger  in  a  rather  contem- 
plative way. 

"  Isn't  it  a  beautiful  stone  ?  "  exclaims  the  girl,  holding 
it  up  for  inspection,  and  whispers,  "  I'm  afraid  it  must 
have  ruined  poor  Gussie." 

"  Yes,  if  he  paid  for  it !  "  returns  La  Marvin,  who  has 
gone  to  turning  over  the  photographs,  searching  for  the 
picture  of  the  Baby  mine  canon.  This  she  examines 
very  carefully,  striving  to  see  what  the  picture  contained 
to  cause  such  extraordinary  emotions  to  Lord  Avonmere. 

Though  she  racks  her  aged  brains  over  this  photo- 
graph, she  can  make  nothing  of  it,  and  so  follows  Matilde 
up-stairs  and  to  bed,  where  she  again  sets  her  mind  upon 
the  puzzle  with  no  better  success. 

The  subject  of  her  anxious  meditations  lighting  a 
cigar,  strolls  down  Fifth  Avenue,  now  bright  with  elec- 
tric light  and  made  bustling  with  equipages  bringing 
their  occupants  home  from  the  theatres  and  the  opera, 
and  transferring  them  from  dinners  and  receptions  to  the 
balls  and  dancing  parties  that  generally  begin  about  this 
time  of  the  evening.  These  are  less  numerous  than  usual, 
a  good  portion  of  New  York  society  having,  like  Mist 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  121 

Follis,  worn  itself  out  at  the  great  ball  of  the  night 
before. 

After  wandering  along  a  few  blocks,  he  hails  a  passing 
"hansom"  and  says,  "The  Stuyvesant  Club — Quick!" 
for  he  has  made  up  his  mind  to  become  intimate  with 
little  Gussie,  and  knows  the  place  where  he  will  quite 
probably  run  upon  him  at  this  time  of  night. 

He  has  in  his  pocket  a  visitors'  card  sent  him  for 
this  rendezvous  of  the  more  Anglofied  New  York  set,  and 
strolls  into  the  spacious  hall  of  this  establishment  to  hear 
the  sounds  of  revelry  coming  from  the  smoking-room. 
Among  the  voices  he  recognizes  that  of  little  Van  Beek- 
man. 

Then  the  flunky  taking  his  hat  suddenly  begins  to 
snicker,  and  a  song  is  wafted  to  Avonmere's  ears  that 
makes  him  grit  his  teeth  with  rage  as  the  hidden  mean- 
ing of  its  refrain  conies  home  to  him,  for  it  is  an  atro- 
cious paraphrase  of  the  popular  ditty,  "  Baby  Mine,"  and 
Gussie's  friends  end  it  with  this  significant  chorus: 

I  shall  get  it  from  papa,  baby  mine,  baby  mine, 
1  shall  spend  it  all,  tra  la  !  baby  mine,  baby  mine. 
It  is  coming  quick  to  me,  baby  mine,  baby  mine. 
It'll  all  be  brought  by  she,  baby  mine,  baby  mine. 
Then  Beek  '11  have  a  spree,  baby  mine,  baby  mine. 

A  moment  after,  controlling  his  features,  he  enters  the 
room  to  find  Augustus  holding  high  carnival,  surrounded 
by  his  particular  cronies,  to  whom  he  has  been  imparting 
the  news  of  his  engagement,  and  who  have  been  toasting 
him  in  champagne,  which  has  gone  to  their  heads  and 
driven  them  to  singing  the  doggerel  Avonmere  has  just 
heard. 

This  has  been  the  concoction  of  a  stock -broking  youth, 
one  Grayson,  who  has  just  remarked,  with  brutal  Wall 
Street  wit,  "  We  could  spare  the  gals,  don't  yer  know, 
but  it's  losing  the  money  hurts  us.  We're  shipping  too 
much  gold  to  Europe  anyway.  Gussie  has  saved  the 
country  this  trip  ! " 

Strolling  up  to  this  little  savior  of  his  country,  who  is 
slightly  elated  both  by  good  fortune  and  champagne, 
Avonmere  remarks  :  "  I've  just  been  calling  at  No.  637 
Fifth  Avenue  and  heard  the  news.  My  congratulations, 
old  fellow  I  " 


122  MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE. 

"  Awh — thanks,  my  dear  Lord  Avonmere  ! "  ejaculates 
Gussie  with  tremendous  emphasis  on  the  title.  "  Please 
sit  down  with  us,"  and  introduces  his  friends  to  him. 

On  this  Avonmere  joins  the  party,  and  throwing  him- 
self into  the  conversation  becomes  so  genial  and  pleasant 
that  they  all  get  to  loving  this  hearty,  jovial  English  aris- 
tocrat, and  make  a  very  jolly  night  of  it ;  little  Augustus 
during  the  evening  telling  him  he  has  just  come  from  the 
Brevoort,  where  he  has  been  to  see  Phil  Everett  and  his 
pretty  sister,  Miss  Bessie,  who  has  captured  the  Marquis 
of  Grousemoor. 

"  Is  Grousemoor  in  town  ?  "  asks  Avonmere,  a  slight 
shade  running  over  his  countenance. 

"  Oh,  trust  him  for  that !  "  cries  Van  Beekman.  "  Phil 
and  his  sister  have  come  over  from  Boston  to  stay  a 
month  or  two,  and  Grousemoor's  so  sweet  on  the  charm- 
ing Bessie,  he  could  no  more  keep  away  from  her  than  a 
fly  could  from  fly-paper."  Then  he  goes  on  reflectively: 
'  I  wonder  how  an  English  lord  can  marry  in  this  coun- 
try. By  George  !  if  I  had  an  English  title  and  an  Eng- 
lish estate,  it  would  be  an  earl  s  daughter  or  nothing." 

"  Would  it  ?  "  mutters  Avonmere  under  his  mustache, 
and  sits  looking  at  the  little  fellow  as  he  sips  his  wine 
with  his  caddish  affectation  and  dudish  ideas  until  on  a 
sudden  a  smile  of  mixed  amusement  and  triumph  lights 
the  nobleman's  Italian  eyes. 

A  few  moments  after,  he  bids  little  Gussie  and  his 
friends  good  evening  and  passes  out  ;  but  getting  to  the 
cloak-room  of  the  club  he  goes  into  such  a  spasm  of  jeer- 
ing laughter  that  the  attendant  handing  him  his  hat 
drops  that  article  in  amazement  on  the  floor.  But  some- 
how the  English  lord  has  got  into  such  a  good  humor 
that  he  doesn't  chide  the  servant,  though  not  as  a  rule 
polite  to  his  inferiors. 

Little  Gussie  is  also  happy,  and  issues  from  the  smok- 
ing-room to  be  made  more  so. 

Avonmere  contrives  to  meet  him  in  the  hall,  remark- 
ing :  "  You  live  up  the  avenue  ?  I  am  at  the  Saint  Marc. 
Supposing  we  walk  along  together." 

"  Right  you  are,  chappie  !  "  cries  the  elated  Van  Beck- 
man,  whose  elegance  of  diction  has  been  somewhat  de- 
stroyed by  champagne. 

The  Englishman  lighting  a  cigar,  and  the  puny  New 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  12$ 

Yorker  illuminating  a  cigarette,  they  leave  the  club,  arm 
in  arm,  for  Gussie  is  determined  upon  getting  as  close  to 
the  peer  as  he  can,  and  in  fact  finds  his  support  almost  a 
physical  necessity.  As  they  stroll  on  their  way,  Avon- 
mere  deftly  pumps  his  little  companion  as  to  his  views  on 
certain  social  questions,  and  just  as  they  reach  Gussie's 
door  brings  the  subject  round  again  to  Lord  Grouse- 
moor's  American  fiancte. 

He  remarks  :  "  American  women  are  generally  hand- 
some. I  hear  Miss  Everett  is  extremely  beautiful.  I 
don't  wonder  at  Grousemoor's  infatuation.  I  understand 
she'll  have  a  very  pretty  portion,  though  of  course  no 
such  a  settlement  as  your  Western  heiress." 

"  Of  course,  little  Bessie's  good-looking  and  rich,  but 
how  any  Englishman  of  title  can  wish  to  marry  out  of  his 
own  class  is  more  than  I  can  get  through  my  head," 
babbles  Augustus. 

"Indeed!"  murmurs  Avonmere.  "But  I'm  keeping 
you  in  the  cold.  Good  night  !  If  you've  nothing  better 
to  do,  breakfast  with  me — to-morrow  at  eleven — will 
you  ?  " 

"  Delighted  !  Won't  I  !  "  giggles  Gussie.  "  Saint 
Marc,  you  said,"  and  passes  into  his  doorway. 

Gazing  after  him,  the  Englishman  laughs  a  nasty  little 
laugh  again  and  then  mutters  :  "  His  own  caddishness 
shall  be  his  ruin." 

As  for  Augustus,  he  gets  into  his  room  and  dances 
about  and  screams  out  significantly,  "  Skyrockets  !  Sky- 
rockets I  SKYROCKETS  ! "  then  chuckles  merrily,  "  Yes- 
terday pursued  by  a  beast  of  a  tailor — to-day  engaged  to 
millions  and  chums  with  two  Lords,"  and  so  goes  to  bed 
the  happiest  dude  in  New  York. 


CHAPTER  XII 
MADAME  LAMERE'S  ACADEMY  FOR  YOUNG  LADIES. 

IF  the  announcement  of  his  engagement  brings  com- 
fort, ease,  and  rest  to  little  Gussie,  it  raises  up  a  buzz  of 
dissent,  and  even  opposition,  about  the  pretty  ears  of 
Miss  Matilde. 


124  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

She  announces  her  happiness  to  her  mother,  and  that 
lady  cries  out,  astounded  :  "  Going  to  marry  that  little 
sniff  ?  Tilly,  don't  joke  on  such  a  biz  J  I  should  think 
you  had  too  much  ed-u-cash  to  fool  about  such  a  going 
on  !  " 

"  But  I  mean  it,  mamma !  "  mutters  the  young  lady, 
with  a  charming,  little  surly  pout,  partly  at  Mrs.  Follis's 
unbelief  and  partly  at  her  diction. 

"  Don't  you  tell  me  fibs,  Tillie  !  "  cries  her  mother. 
"  I  won't  stand  it  from  you  now  no  more  than  I  would  if 
you  was  knee-high.  No  girl  tells  her  mother  she's  keep- 
ing company  with  her  fellah  without  a  blush  of  maiden 
skittishness,  and  you  ain't  got  the  color  of  a  chloride  this 
morning  ! " 

"  Blushes  have  nothing  to  do  with  facts,"  returns  Miss 
Follis  calmly.  "  It  is  not  the  fashion  to  blush  now — in 
society  ;  and  please  don't  ever  use  such  an  awful  expres- 
sion as  'keeping  company  with  a  fellow.'  If  anyone 
else  had  heard  it  I  should  die  of  blushes,  fashion  or  no 
fashion.  Besides,  you  may  know  I'm  not  joking  by 
this  I"  And  she  exhibits,  perhaps  a  little  defiantly,  Mr. 
Gussie's  diamond. 

At  this  a  mother's  tears  of  tenderness  come  into 
Rachel's  eyes,  as  she  says,  astonished  :  "  You  love  that 
popinjay  ?  'Tain't  possible  !  "  Then  suddenly  cries  : 
"  Darter,  I — I  ask  your  pardon  for  caMing  your  fellah 
that — if  you're  really  sweet  on  him  !  "  And  getting 
her  arms  about  Matilde's  fair  neck,  she  sobs :  "  He's 
going  to  take  you  from  me — I  can  see  it  in  your  face  ;" 
this  criticism  of  her  choice  having  put  a  very  determined 
look  into  the  girl's  eyes. 

Softened  by  Rachel's  tears,  the  young  lady  gets  to  cry- 
ing also,  and  blurts  out :  "  No  man  shall  take  me  from 
you  if  you  don't  wish  it."  For  she  loves  her  mother  very 
dearly. 

And  this  settles  the  matter.  After  that  speech  Mrs 
Follis  is  as  wax  in  her  daughter's  hands,  and  tells  her 
with  many  caresses  and  some  tears :  "  You  shall  do  just 
as  you  like,  my  darter,  and  marry  the  man  you  cotton  to ; 
and  if  father  objects  send  him  to  me;  I'll  take  the  ginger 
out  of  him  in  short  order  !  " 

"  It  isn't  dad — I  mean  father— that'll  make  the  trouble, 
I  think,"  mutters  Miss  Follis,  forgetting  the  fashion  and 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  125 

holding  a  blushing  and  tearful  face  upon  her  mother's 
bosom. 

"  No  ?  "  mutters  Rachel.  Then  with  a  sudden  flash  of 
thought,  she  cries  :  "  It's  Bob  you're  thinking  of — you 
never  promised  him,  did  you,  Tillie  ? "  and  goes  on 
sternly  :  "  If  you  gave  your  word,  my  darter,  you  shall 
live  up  to  it ! " 

"  Mother,  as  I'm  your  child,  I  never  gave  him  hope  ! " 
answers  Matilde. 

"  Then  if  he  comes  from  Colorado  to  make  a  muss,  you 
send  him  to  me,  and  I'll  teach  him  to  raise  his  eyes  to 
people  that  have  moved  out  of  his  set — I'll — !  You  pass 
him  on  to  me  and  I'll  give  Bob  Jackson  the  settling 
down  of  his  life  !  "  And  Rachel  Follis  looks  her  words. 
Her  forefathers  have  fought  Indians  in  Kentucky,  and 
she  has  defended  herself  from  them  in  Minnesota,  and 
once  faced  a  grizzly  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  at  this 
moment,  though  robed  in  silks  and  laces,  she  is  the  fron- 
tier woman  of  her  earlier  days. 

This  makes  Matilde  think  she  has  got  over  the  worst 
of  her  opposition,  but  in  this  she  is  mistaken,  for  the 
absent  Bob  has  a  very  zealous  and  near-by  champion. 

Some  three  or  four  hours  after  Matilde's  interview 
with  her  mother,  Miss  Flossie  Follis,  having  obtained 
leave  of  absence  from  Madame  Lamere,  drives  up  from 
her  school,  and  passing  the  attending  footman  in  the 
hall,  strides  up  the  stairs  to  her  sister's  room,  with  a  very 
determined  look  on  her  young  face. 

At  the  door  of  Matilde's  boudoir — for  Miss  Follis  has 
taken  unto  her  own  use  a  complete  suit  of  apartments  in 
this  ample  house — the  girl  raps  sharply,  and  cries  :  "  It's 
Flossie,  home  from  school,"  and  getting  the  answer  : 
"  Come  in,  you  darling  !  "  runs  into  Matilde's  open 
arms,  for  the  two  girls  love  each  other  very  dearly,  hav- 
ing been  inseparable  companions  and  confidantes  until 
the  elder  had  left  the  younger  at  school  and  entered 
society. 

"  This  is  delightful ! "  cries  Miss  Follis,  after  their 
first  caress.  "  Are  you  off  forjthe  day  ?  How  did  you 
get  out  of  Madame's  clutches  ?  " 

"  I — I  had  to  go  to  the  dentist,"  mutters  the  other, 
with  an  embarrassed  blush. 

"  Oh,  a  little  fib  !  "  laughs  Matilde.     "  I  am  to  be  your 


126  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

tooth-extractor  to-day.  Which  tooth,  Flossie  ? "  and 
seizing  her  sister  she  playfully  forces  her  into  an  easy- 
chair,  crying  out  :  "  Open  your  mouth  !  I  want  a  pretty 
pearl  from  your  lips  !  " 

"Look  out  !  I  always  bite  my  dentist  if  he  hurts," 
returns  Flossie,  and  the  two  girls  go  into  a  laughing  love- 
struggle,  in  which  they  make  a  picture  that  would  have 
been  very  beautiful  to  masculine  eyes,  the  one  blonde 
and  piquant,  the  other  dark  and  noble.  But  finally,  the 
patient  conquering  the  dentist,  the  two  sink  down  on  a 
sofa,  with  arms  around  each  other's  waist,  exhausted 
but  still  struggling. 

A  moment  later  Flossie  asks  :  "  How's  mother  ?  Your 
dentist  attack  was  so  sudden,  I  couldn't  ask  before." 

"Well,  but  at  present  out  of  the  house,"  answers 
Matilde,  lightly. 

But  here  the  conversation  takes  a  sudden  and  awful 
turn.  A  severe  and  determined  voice  comes  to  her  ears. 
"  What  is  that  awful  new  diamond  doing  on  your  en- 
gagement finger  ?  Oh,  you  needn't  try  to  turn  it  round 
and  hide  it.  I've  seen  it !  Tillie,  it  isn't  true  ?  That's 
what  I  came  up  about,"  and  Miss  Flossie,  producing  a 
copy  of  the  Town  Tattler,  and  holding  the  paper  before 
her  sister,  says  earnestly  and  reproachfully :  "  TELL  ME 
IT  ISN'T  TRUE." 

But  she  gets  no  answer  to  this.  Matilde  seeing  her 
chance,  carries  the  war  into  Africa.  "  You  horrid, 
naughty  child  !  "  she  cries.  "  How  dare  you  read  that 
abominable  paper  ?  That's  nice  reading  for  a  boarding- 
school  girl  !  If  Madame  Lamere,  or  worse  still,  mother 
knew — WHEUGH  !  "  She  emphasizes  this  with  a  piquant 
Uttle  gesture,  and  a  miserable  paraphrase  of  a  laugh. 

"  That's  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  answers  Flossie,  very 
seriously.  "  That  paper  was  shoved  before  me  by  half  a 
dozen  girls.  The  school's  full  of  it.  I — I  did  not  be- 
lieve it.  Tell  me  it  is  not  so.  Tell  me  that  awful  ring 
is  a  lie  !  " 

Looking  at  her  sister,  Miss  Follis  thinks  it  is  as  well  to 
have  the  matter  out  with  her  at  once.  She  says  slowly  : 
"  Florence,  it  is  the  truth  !  " 

To  this  the  other  answers  with  a  great  reproach  in  her 
voice,  but  one  word — "Bob!" 

"Don't  talk  of  him  !"  cries  the  older.     "You  shan't 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  127 

ding  his  name  into  my  ears.  Sometimes  I  think  it  never 
leaves  them,  sleeping  or  waking." 

"  Ah  !  That  proves  that  you  have  no  right  to  wear 
another  man's  ring.  That  proves  that  Bob  has  still  your 
heart." 

"  Still  has  my  heart  ?  He  never  had  it.  I  never  gave 
him  hope.  NEVER  !  How  dare  you  reproach  me  ?  " 
answers  Matilde,  trying  to  unclasp  her  sister's  arms. 

But  the  other,  unheeding  her,  goes  on  :  "  The  awful 
vanity  of  this  place  has  changed  you.  You  are  not  the 
same  little  girl  that  used  to  stand  by  me  waiting  for  the 
stage  when  it  brought  Bob  in  from  Denver,  loaded  down 
with  everything  his  generous  heart  could  think  of  for  our 
appetites  and  pleasures." 

"  They  were  for  you  as  much  as  for  me  ! "  answers 
Matilde.  Then  attempting  an  affected  laugh,  she  cries  : 
"  You  seem  interested  in  Bob  yourself,  why  not  give  him 
the  happiness  I  deny  him  ? " 

"  And  you  dare  sneer  at  his  great  love  ? "  stammers 
Flossie,  as  she  starts  back  from  her  sister,  her  face  pale 
with  astonishment  and  reproach. 

"  It  was  not  a  sneer — only  a  suggestion,"  murmurs 
Matilde,  avoiding  Flossie's  eyes  and  appearing  embar- 
rassed and  ashamed  of  herself,  as  in  truth  she  is. 

"  You  know  that  would  be  impossible,"  returns  her  sis- 
ter gravely.  "  Bob  likes  me,  he  loves  you.  You've  had 
his  big  heart,  Tillie,  since  you  were  almost  a  child.  Be- 
sides, why  talk  to  me  in  this  way  ?  Haven't  I  often  told 
you  " — here  the  girl  blushes  and  hesitates  a  little — "  that 
I  love  another  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  screams  Matilde,  eager  to  change  the  subject ; 
"  haven't  you  got  over  that  mythical  cowboy  you've 
always  been  dreaming  about  ever  since  I  found  a  dear 
little  sister  who  had  forgotten  who  she  ever  was  ? " 

But  >>*<re  Flossie  gives  Matilde  an  awful  start : 
"  Mythical  ? "  she  cries  ;  "he  is  becoming  more  real  to 
me  every  day.  I  recollect  his  name  now  !  " 

"  His  name  ?  "  gasps  her  sister  in  a  half-frightened  yet 
curious  way.  "  What  was  it  ?  " 

"  Peter  /"  answers  Flossie  very  solemnly,  and  then 
says  :  "  Sometimes  1  think  the  past  would  all  come  back 
to  me  now,  if  I  could  only  get  something  to  start  with,  I 
should  remember  my  father  and  my  mother — ~" 


128  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

But  before  she  can  say  another  word,  Tillie  is  round 
her  neck  crying  :  "  If  you  find  them,  Flossie,  if  you  find 
them,  you  won't  desert  us  ?  You'll  break  father's  and 
mother's  hearts.  They  are  as  true  to  you  as  if  you  were 
their  flesh  and  blood,  and  you  know  I  love  you,  or  I'd 
never  have  taken  this  talking  to  you've  given  me  to-day." 

And  Flossie,  conquered  by  this  outburst,  cries:  "  Never  ! 
Your  father  is  my  father,  your  mother  is  my  mother,  and 
you  are  my  sister  !  I  could  love  no  one  more  dearly  !  " 

Then  the  two  girls  get  round  each  other  and  make  love 
to  each  other  and  keep  it  up  all  tjhe  afternoon,  not  men- 
tioning their  quarrel  by  hint  or  allusion. 

But  Flossie,  on  going  away,  whispers^solemnly  :  "  Til- 
lie,  think  of  what  I  have  said  ;  it  would  hurt  you  to  have 
me  leave  you.  Think  how  it  will  break  that  generous 
heart  in  far  away  Colorado,  if  he  loses  you.  Don't  let  a 
social  ambition  destroy  your  happiness  in  life  !  " 

With  this  the  school-girl  passes  down-stairs,  and,  Mrs. 
Follis  not  having  returned,  goes  back  to  Madame  La- 
mere's,  and  would  perhaps  have  a  hard  time  of  it,  for  her 
absence  has  been  too  long  a  one,  did  not  the  signs  of 
emotional  misery  on  her  face  prove  that  she  has  visited 
the  dentist  and  suffered  greatly  at  his  hands. 

Some  two  days  after  this,  Avonmere  having  made  him- 
self intimate  with  Mr.  Augustus  and  his  family  history, 
including  the  revolutionary  scandal,  and  fathomed  every 
shallow  of  his  puny  and  caddish  mind,  goes  over  his 
plan  of  action  very  carefully,  and  settles  all  preliminary 
details. 

Then  strolling  up  the  avenue  he  rings  the  bell  of  the 
Follis  mansion,  and  asks  for  Mrs.  Marvin. 

He  has  told  her  the  evening  before,  at  a  ball  given  by 
Mrs.  Bradford  Morton,  of  his  intended  visit,  and  the 
widow  is  ready  to  receive  him  alone — the  chief  subject  of 
their  conversation,  Miss  Follis,  being  out  of  the  house 
upon  some  feminine  errand. 

During  these  two  days,  however,  Avonmere,  though  he 
has  taken  great  care  to  show  no  attention  to  Miss  Ma- 
tilde  that  might  make  little  Gussie  jealous,  knowing  that 
small  minds  value  most  what  they  see  others  prize,  has 
still  contrived  to  keep  himself  pretty  well  in  the  young 
lady's  view,  dancing  with  her  once  or  twice,  and  devoting 
five  minutes  to  her  at  two  afternoon  teas.  He  has  also 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  129 

contrived  that  she  shall  discover  that  he  is  considered  of 
much  more  consequence  in  the  social  world  than  all  the 
Van  Beekmans  and  De  Punsters  put  together,  a  fact  he 
has  not  much  difficulty  in  impressing  upon  her  sharp 
Western  intellect,  New  York  society  getting  on  its  knees 
to  a  genuine  English  peer  of  the  realm  in  a  way  that 
wears  out  feminine  stockings  and  masculine  trousers  very 
quickly,  as  Mr.  Grayson,  the  Wall  Street  wit,  puts  it. 

After  passing  the  compliments  of  the  day,  Avonmere 
comes  rather  bluntly  to  the  business  he  has  on  hand, 
and  says  :  "  I  do  not  think  Miss  Matilde  will  throw  Van 
Beekman  over." 

"  Indeed  !     Why  not  ?  "  whispers  the  widow. 

"  Well,  I  think  she  has  too  much  principle  for  it,"  he 
remarks.  "  I  have  sounded  her,  and  she  cut  me  off  very 
short." 

"  Principle  ? — It's  stilf-necked  obstinacy  !  "  cries  Mrs. 
Marvin.  "  She  was  almost  ready  to  toss  over  that 
wretch  the  day  after  her  engagement.  She  would  have 
hated  and  despised  him  by  this  time,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  her  chit  of  a  sister  !  " 

"  Her  sister  ?  "  echoes  Avonmere,  somewhat  astonished, 
for  he  has  never  heard  of  Miss  Flossie. 

"  Yes,  a  boarding-school  girl.  She's  at  Madame  La- 
mere's  Academy  now.  What  does  she  do,  but  having 
read  in  some  copy  of  that  immoral  Town  Tattler  that  she 
must  have  smuggled  into  the  school,  and  for  which,  if  I 

was  Lamere,  I'd !  "  Her  words  fail  to  do  justice 

to  the  idea,  and  she  fills  it  out  with  expressive  gesture. 
Then  calming  herself  a  little,  she  goes  on.  "  Well,  what 
does  this  minx  do  after  reading  a  notice  of  her  sister's 
engagement  in  the  Tattler  but  rush  up  from  her  stud- 
ieSj  and  striding  in  to  her  sister,  show  her  the  article  in 
the  paper,  and  with  the  air  of  a  Queen  Elizabeth  and  the 
tact  of  an  imbecile,  demand  if  it  is  true.  Then  being 
rather  curtly  informed  that  it  was  a  fact  by  Matiide,  who 
has  a  very  pretty  spirit  of  her  own,  as  you'll  perhaps  dis- 
cover some  day,  the  two  sisters  had  an  awful  time,  the 
younger  giving  the  elder  a  regular  oration,  championing 
and  espousing  the  cause  of  *  Bob,'  a  Colorado  miner,  who 
apparently  has  his  eyes  upon  Miss  Follis,  with  matrimo- 
nial views."  To  this  Mrs.  Marvin  adds  :  "  Of  course 
the  scene  did  not  take  place  in  my  presence,  for  both 


130  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

girls  are  far  too  lady-like  to  indulge  in  any  such  discus, 
sion  in  public  ;  but  I  learnt  the  facts  from  my  maid,  whs 
has  a  way  of  picking  up  news  about  the  house  in  a 
manner  peculiar  to  herself  and  useful  to  me." 

"A  younger  sister  and  a  Colorado  suitor,  two  new 
complications  !  "  remarks  Avonmere.  "  One  will  halve 
Miss  Follis's  settlement,  and  the  other  may  win  girl,  set- 
tlement and  all." 

"  Matilde  will  have  the  portion  I  told  you.  That 
should  be  enough  even  for  you.  As  for  Rocky  Moun- 
tain Bob,  he's  far  away  at  present,"  replies  the  widow 
Then  she  goes  on  :  "  You  indicated  to  me  at  Mrs.  Mor- 
ton's that  you  had  something  to  suggest ;  but  at  present 
I  hear  nothing  of  it."  This  last  is  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"  Precisely !  "  murmurs  the  lord  in  his  unconcerned 
way.  "  I  was  about  to  hint  that  as  we  cannot  induce  the 
young  lady  to  jilt  Mr.  Gussie,  we  must  induce  little  Gussie 
to  jilt  HER." 

"  Induce  a  pauper  to  give  up  an  heiress  ?  "  jeers  Mrs. 
Marvin,  whom  this  disappointment  is  making  ill-tempered. 
"  You  must  be  mad,  Lord  Avonmere  !  " 

"  Perfectly  sane,  thank  you  1  "  he  replies. 

Then,  though  all  this  conversation  has  been  carried  on 
in  an  undertone,  and  their  heads  have  not  been  five  feet 
away  during  the  interview,  he  draws  his  chair  close  to  the 
sofa  upon  which  the  widow  is  sitting,  and  says  imperi- 
ously, "  LISTEN  ! " 

With  this,  placing  his  lips  quite  close  to  one  of  the 
lady's  diamond  ear-rings,  he  begins  to  whisper  the  plan  he 
has  formulated  in  his  subtile  brain  for  making  the  pov- 
erty-stricken Gussie  de  Punster  Van  Beekman  discard  and 
disdain  the  reigning  heiress  of  Colorado,  Miss  Matilde 
Tompkins  Follis. 

At  first,  as  his  idea  strikes  her,  she  starts  and  gazes  at 
him  as  if  not  quite  sure  of  his  sanity  and  cries,  "  Impos- 
sible !  "  Then  as  he  goes  on,  and  the  social  invention  of 
this  lord,  with  British  doggedness  and  Italian  cunning 
comes  thoroughly  home  to  her  in  all  its  exquisite  com- 
edy, La  Marvin  throws  herself  back  on  the  sofa,  and 
such  shrieks  and  convulsions  of  laughter  rush  through 
her  fat  frame  that  there  is  an  ominous  sound  of  breaking 
Lacings  in  the  vicinity  of  her  pinched-in  waist. 

Avonmere  looks  at  her  calmlv  as  this  ^oes  on,  but  after 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  IJI 

a  time,  fearing  apoplexy,  her  face  has  grown  so  red,  he 
lifts  her  up  and  says,  "  I  thought  you  would  enjoy  the 
little  comedy  !  " 

"  Won't  I  !  "  screams  the  widow,  and  goes  off  into 
another  spasm,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes  mutters,  "  Poor 
little  Gussie — O  my  !  I  think  I  see  him  !  " 

But  Avonmere  says  pointedly :  "  Now  to  carry  out  my 
idea,  I  must  have  money,  and  a  good  deal  of  it.  Can 
you  get  it  for  me  ?  " 

At  his  mention  of  the  pecuniary  difficulties  of  his  plan, 
Mrs.  Marvin  looks  very  serious.  After  a  little  consider- 
ation, however,  she  says :  "  I  think  I  know  how  I  can 
obtain  the  money  you  desire.  I  can  answer  you  defi- 
nitely in  a  few  hours.  How  much  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  It  would  not  be  safe  to  attempt  the  thing  on  less  than 
a  thousand  !  "  returns  Avonmere. 

"  A  thousand  ?  Oh,  I  can  fix  that  surely.  A  thousand 
dollars  is " 

"  A  thousand  pounds"  he  interrupts. 

"  Of  course,  I  might  have  known  that.  The  thousand 
pounds  shall  be  at  your  disposal,  if  I  can  get  them  from 
the  source  I  have  in  my  mind.  You  shall  hear  from  me 
this  evening.  Please  ask  Matilde  to  hold  her  brougham 
for  me.  I  see  she  has  just  driven  up,"  remarks  Mrs. 
Marvin,  glancing  out  of  the  window. 

Encouraged  by  these  words,  he  makes  his  adieu  and 
passes  out  to  meet  Miss  Follis,  who  is  just  alighting,  with 
that  grace  of  motion  so  common  to  American  girls. 

She  gives  him  such  a  pretty  bow  and  bright  smile  as 
he  delivers  his  message,  that  Avonmere  strides  do\vn  the 
avenue,  at  one  moment  praying  that  Mrs.  Marvin  will 
get  the  money  for  his  scheme,  at  the  next  cursing  the 
little  Augustus  who  has  seized  upon  this  beautiful  prize, 
which  his  hands  had  reached  out  to  grasp. 

A  few  minutes  after,  the  widow  gets  into  the  Follis 
brougham  and  says  to  the  footman,  as  he  closes  the  door  : 
"  Madame  Lamere's." 

This  direction  being  very  well  known  to  the  coachman, 
Mrs.  Marvin  soon  finds  herself  in  front  of  that  fashion- 
able young  ladies'  school  and  its  door  opening  to  her. 

A  moment  after,  she  sends  her  name  in  to  Madame 
Lamere,  and  is  effusively  received  by  that  lady,  who 
knows  that  her  visitor  can  put  her  in  the  way  of  a  good 


13*  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

many  scholars,  if  she  only  raises  her  voice  and  chants  he! 
praises  a  very  little. 

Madame  Eulalie  Euphrosyne  Lamere  is  a  petite  bundle 
of  foreign  airs,  French  graces,  British  deportment,  and 
broken  English,  complicated  by  an  atrocious  accent. 

Cutting  short  her  extremely  vivacious  and  long-drawn- 
out  nothings  as  soon  as  possible,  Mrs.  Marvin,  who  is 
American  as  regards  business  directness,  requests  to 
know  if  she  can  see  Miss  Florence  Follis  for  a  few 
moments. 

"  Ah  !  Zat  Mees  Fo-iees,"  cries  the  little  school- 
teacher. "I  do  not  like  to — she  es  varie  un-ruly  ;  she 
is  in  disgrace,  my  dear  Madame  Marvin.  She  is  an 
atrocity.  She  has  a  rebellion  in  her  blood,"  and  Lamere 
winds  up  with  a  French  shrug  indicative  of  horror  and 
dismay. 

"  What  has  Florence  done  ?  "  asks  Mrs.  Marvin,  rather 
curtly. 

"  Ah  !     At  ze  opera  class." 

"  The  opera  class  ?  "  cries  the  widow,  astonished. 

"  Oui !  Ven  zey  have  a  ver  fine  opera,  I  make  up  an 
opera  class  of  my  oldest  pupils.  I  take  a  box,  and  zen 
under  my  instruction  zey  study  ze  music  of  ze  grand 
maisters.  Last  night  I  took  zem  to — a  Wagner." 

"Yes,  I  saw  you  there,"  breaks  in  Mrs.  Marvin,  im- 
patiently, she  being  anxious  to  see  the  young  lady  and 
get  her  business  settled. 

"  Vel,  I  take  zem  there.  I  find  myself  in  ze  corridors 
of  ze  Metropolitan  with  five  young  ladies.  Then  zey 
grow  wild  wid  ze  lights,  ze  people  and  ze  excitement. 
One  gazes  at  ze  dresses,  another  look  at  ze  diamonds,  all 
ze  other  at  ze  gentlemen.  Zey  are  here  ! — zair  ! — every- 
whair  \  I  am  wild  myself,  like  a  hen  with  ducklins." 

"  I  can  sympathize  with  you,"  remarks  Mrs.  Marvin, 
giving  a  little  sigh  as  she  remembers  some  of  her  own 
troubles,  chaperoning  debutantes. 

"  Oh,  zat  is  not  ze  worst ! "  continues  Madame.  "  As 
soon  as  I  get  zem  to  my  loge,  Mademoiselle  Florence 
sees  a  gentleman,  tall,  vith  le  bel  air,  and  dark  eyes 
come  into  ze  box  in  which  you  and  her  sistar,  Mees 
Matilde,  sit.  She  say  to  me  :  'I  will  go  down  and  sit 
vid  my  sistar.'  Mon  Dieu  !  Tink  of  zat, — vith  three  or 
four  gentlemans  in  ze  box  !  If  I  had  let  hair,  in  one 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  IJ3 

moment  ze  whole  class  would  have  demanded  ze  same 
privilege,  and  been  scatared  into  the  boxes  of  the  Metro- 
politan. I  say,  '  You  are  mad,  Mademoiselle.'  She  say : 
'  I  am  going  down  to  zat  box — I  must  see  my  sistar.'  I 
say :  *  It  is  not  your  sistar  zat  you  want  to  see.  It  is 
zat  gentleman  vid  ze  black  eyes.'  Then  she  grows  very 
haughty,  and  say  vid  zat  grand  air  of  hers  :  '  Madame, 
you  are  right  ! '  At  zis  my  young  ladies  all  giggle  out 
ioud,  and  I  nearly  faint,  but  I  whisper  sternly  to  her : 
'Mademoiselle,  you  shall  not  leave  ze  box,  nevair I  I 
will  take  you  home  first ! '  And  she  say  :  '  There  is  no 
need  of  zat ;  while  I  am  under  your  authority  I  shall 
obey  your  instructions,  Madame  Lamere,'  and  growing 
sulky  she  goes  to  ze  back  of  ze  box.  Zen  after  a  few 
moment  I  see  ze  gentleman  in  ze  next  loge  laugh  a 
leetle,  and  I  look  round,  and,  Mon  Dieu  !  Mademoiselle 
Florence  is  giving  all  my  young  ladies  chocolate  cara- 
mels, witch  zey  are  eating  behind  zair  fans" 

During  this  melancholy  recitation,  Mrs.  Marvin  has 
laughed  a  little.  She  now  cuts  off  Lamere's  pedagogic 
woes  by  saying  :  "  Notwithstanding  her  disgrace,  I  wish 
to  see  Miss  Florence  immediately.  It  will  be  a  very  great 
favor  to  me.  Mrs.  Jameson  was  speaking  about  leaving 
her  daughter  at  your  school  during  her  projected  Euro- 
pean tour " 

"  I  vill  send  Mademoiselle  down  immediatement  I "  cries 
the  schoolmistress  upon  this  hint  of  a  new  pupil,  and  she 
leaves  the  widow  in  the  reception-room. 

Waiting  for  the  young  lady's  appearance,  voices  come 
to  Mrs.  Marvin's  ears.  They  are  from  two  school-girls 
who  are  passing  through  the  hall  to  recitation. 

One  says  in  rather  a  loud  tone :  "  Another  swell  caller. 
Miss  Nobody  of  Nowhere'll  be  putting  on  airs." 

The  other  says  in  a  frightened  tone  :  "  Hush !  If 
Madame  heard  you  call  her  that  you'd  catch  it ! " 

A  moment  after,  Miss  Flossie  Follis  enters  the  room  ; 
she  is  in  a  quiet  tailor-made  dress,  very  appropriate  to  a 
school-girl,  but  faultless  as  regards  fit  and  style,  for  it 
simply  displays  the  outlines  of  a  figure  that  needs  no 
other  embellishment. 

She  has  a  bright  smile  on  her  face,  and  holds  out  her 
hand  to  Mrs.  Marvin  with  easy  grace. 

"  You  look  in  very  good  spirits  for  a  young  lady  who 


134  MISS  NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE, 

is  in  disgrace,  my  dear,"  remarks  the  widow,  accepting 
her  salute. 

"  Oh,  Madame  Lamere  says  I'm  rebellious,  does  she  ! 
I  should  not  be  myself  if  I  were  not  so — under  the  cir- 
cumstances," laughs  the  girl.  Then  she  goes  on  sud- 
denly, perhaps  anxiously  :  "  Who  was  that  gentleman, 
rather  tall,  with  dark  eyes,  in  your  box  at  the  Metropol- 
itan last  night  ?  He  sat  behind  my  sister  through  an  act." 

"  Lord  Avonmere." 

"  Who  ? "  says  the  girl,  apparently  somewhat  astonished 
at  the  answer. 

"Lord  Avonmere,"  repeats  Mrs.  Marvin.  Then,  anx- 
ious to  get  to  her  subject,  she  laughs,  "  You  did  not 
think  he  was  Mr.  Van  Beekman,  did  you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  recognized  Mr.  Augustus  without  any  trouble 
— the  insignificant  little  blonde  who  whispered  to  Tillie 
the  balance  of  the  time."  Mr.  Van  Beekman's  name  has 
brought  a  sneer  of  contempt  to  Miss  Flossie's  pretty  lip 
that  pleases  Mrs.  Marvin  mightily,  for  it  prophesies  that 
she  will  obtain  the  assistance  for  which  she  has  come. 

She  sneers  in  return.  "  Yes  ;  he  is  neither  imposing 
nor  popular.  I  caught  a  remark  in  the  crowd  as  we  were 
waiting  for  our  carriage  last  night,  of  *  Beauty  and  the 
Beast. ' ' 

"  Did  you  ?  "  cries  the  girl.  "  Oh,  how  can  mother  and 
you  permit  this  horrible  affair  to  go  on  ?  You  needn't 
explain  to  me  ;  I've  heard  all  about  it  in  the  papers. 
I've  given  Tillie  my  opinion  of  the  gentleman.  I've 
done  what  I  could  !  "  Then,  perhaps  ashamed  at  her 
outbreak,  Miss  Flossie  pauses,  blushing  and  embarrassed. 

"  Yes,"  assents  Mrs.  Marvin  in  a  kindly  tone  of  voice, 
"perhaps  you  have  done  too  much,  my  child." 

"  Too  much  !  "  cries  the  girl,  getting  excited  again. 
"When  I  looked  at  his  dissipated,  worn-out  face  last 
night,  and  thought  of — of  a  very  noble  gentleman  who 

"  She  does  not  continue  the  remark,  but  a  generous 

enthusiasm  lights  her  noble  features  and  makes  her  more 
beautiful  than  before. 

Noting  this,  Mrs.  Marvin  comes  immediately  to  her 
subject.  She  says :  "  I  called  upon  you  on  this  very 
matter,  my  child.  I  agree  with  you  that  Mr.  Van  Beek- 
man is  by  no  means  a  proper  match  for  your  lovely  sister. 
She  also  would  have  thought  so  by  this  time " 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  135 

"  You  think,  then,  she  does  not  love  him  ?  "  interrupts 
Flossie  eagerly. 

"  I  am  so  certain  of  that,"  continues  Mrs.  Marvin, 
that  I  am  confident  her  engagement  would  have  by 
this  time  been  a  thing  of  the  past,  had  it  not  been  for 
you,  my  dear." 

'•  Not  been  for  me  ?  "  cries  her  listener  amazed. 

"  Yes  ;  for  vou  !  "  returns  the  widow.  "  Your  enthu- 
siastic heart  made  you  lay  aside  your  tact.  You  re- 
preached  your  sister  with  her  engagement.  Her  gen- 
erous spirit  makes  her  think  it  necessary  to  defend  the 
man  to  whom  she  has  given  her  rash  promise.  A  mis- 
taken idea  of  honor  will  compel  her  to  abide  by  it,  now 
she  thinks  him  attacked — till,  perhaps,  the  happiness  of 
Matilde's  young  life  may  be  wrecked  upon  a  noble  but 
quixotic  sentiment." 

"  Then  she  will  owe  her  unhjappiness  to  my  rash  inter- 
ference !  "  mutters  the  girl,  and  one  perfect  little  foot 
that  is  liberally  exposed  by  her  short  school  dress  begins 
to  play  a  nervous  tattoo  upon  the  reception-room  floor. 
A  moment  after  she  says  :  "  I  know  Matilde's  nature,  she 
always  stood  up  for  the  persecuted.  She'll  never  give 
up  that  wretch.  She  is  as  good  as  Mrs.  Van  Beekman 
now." 

"  Not  at  all,"  murmurs  Mrs.  Marvin  ;  "  a  little  tact  will 
save  her.  Shall  we  use  it  ?  " 

"  Save  her  ?  How  ?  "  asks  the  girl,  so  earnestly  that 
the  widow  knows  her  point  is  gained. 

"  We  will  induce  him  to  give  her  up." 

"  Give  up  Matilde  with  her  beauty — with  her  for ? 

impossible  !  "  replies  Flossie,  cutting  '  fortune  '  short  by 
a  sudden  contraction  of  her  lips. 

"  That  is  what  I  said,"  murmurs  Mrs.  Marvin.  "  Will 
you  aid  me  ? " 

"  To  the  blood  in  my  body !  "  cries  Miss  Enthusiast 
with  a  vehemence  that  makes  the  more  conventional 
woman  start  from  her  chair. 

"  I  shall  not  call  upon  you  for  that,"  she  says  with  a 
little  laugh,  after  settling  herself  in  her  seat.  "  All  that 
is  necessary  is  the  money  in  your  purse." 

"  How  much  ?  " 

"  Before  I  permit  you  to  disburse  your  assets,  I  will 
first  say  that  it  is  a  sum  beyond  my  individual  command 


136  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

without  great  personal  inconvenience,  otherwise  I  should 
not  have  called  on  you." 

"  How  much  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  you  are  too  impatient  !  "  mutters  the  widow 
at  this  interruption.  "  I  cannot  explain  the  details  of 
the  affair — for  that  you  must  trust  to  me.  The  main 
point  of  the  matter  will  be  that  Mr.  Van  Beekman  will 
release  your  sister  in  a  way  that  will  produce  no  scandal 
and  as  little  talk  as  possible  under  the  circumstances. 
This  is  the  probable  outcome  of  the  affair,  though  there 
is  a  bare  possibility  that  he  may  still  hold  Matilde  to  her 
promise.  That  risk  you  must  take." 

"  You  give  me  your  word  of  honor  as  a  woman  that  it 
will  in  no  way  injure  my  sister,  in  name — honor — or  good 
repute  ?  "  says  the  girl  very  slowly  and  with  a  searching, 
anxious  look  in  her  eyes. 

"  As  I  am  a  mother  myself,  by  the  future  of  my  own 
child,  I  give  my  word  !  "  answers  Mrs.  Marvin,  growing 
pale  and  earnest  herself,  but  meeting  Miss  Flossie's  glance 
firmly.  "  The  amount  necessary  will  be  six  thousand 
dollars  !  Can  you  furnish  it  ?  " 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  says  the  younger  Miss  Follis.  "  Why, 
that's  hardly  more  than  four  days'  income ;  I  thought  you 
wanted  half  a  million  !  " 

"  Four  days'  income  ? "  gasps  the  widow,  rolling  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,"  smiles  Flossie,  "  don't  think  me  a  Vanderbilt  or 
an  Astor.  My  income  is  mostly  from  a  mine  ;  it  is 
really  part  of  my  capital  dug  out  and  paid  me,  as  a  bank 
would  honor  my  checks.  If  it  came  from  real  estate 
entirely,  then  I  should^  a  capitalist." 

"  Who  taught  you  all  you  know  of  finance  ?  "  queries 
the  widow. 

"  Bob,  that  is,  Mr.  Robert  Jackson,  one  of  my  trus- 
tees. You  may  thank  him  for  the  power  I  have  to  give 
you  the  money  at  once.  He  deposited  ten  thousand 
dollars  at  the  Second  National  here,  and  gave  a  bond  to 
them  so  that  I,  being  a  minor,  could  check  it  out  over  my 
own  signature.  Bob's  a  very  good  friend  of  mine." 

"  I  should  think  so  !  "  murmurs  Mrs.  Marvin,  who 
recollects  what  Abe  Follis  in  Denver  had  told  her  of 
"  Bob's  "  getting  the  girl  a  fourth  of  the  "  Baby  "  mine. 

"And  I'm  a  good  friend  of  his,"  continues  Flossie, 
"  But  I'll  run  un-stairs  and  bring  you  down  my  check." 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  137 

With  this  she  leaves  the  widow,  who  meditates  upon 
the  four  days'  income  and  wonders  if  Miss  Flossie  would 
not,  perchance,  be  willing  to  sacrifice  herself  in  marriage 
to  Avonmere,  whose  appearance  seems  to  have  interested 
her,  and  so  save  her  sister  for  the  "  Bob  "  whose  friend 
she  has  declared  herself  to  be. 

A  moment  after,  the  girl  enters  the  room  again,  her 
pretty  face  black  as  a  thunder-cloud,  and  cries :  "  You 
may  thank  Madame  Lamere  for  not  receiving  the  money 
this  evening.  Whenever  I  invest  in  too  many  marrons 
glacc's,  as  a  punishment  she  bankrupts  me  by  locking  up 
my  check  book." 

"  That  can  be  easily  arranged,"  suggests  Mrs.  Marvin. 
Then  she  sits  down  at  a  table  upon  which  there  are 
writing  materials,  and  producing  from  her  pocket-book 
a  blank  check  fills  it  up. 

The  next  instant  Flossie  has  signed  it  and  sneered, 
"  Isn't  it  humiliating  to  be  a  school-girl  capitalist.  I'm 
going  to  try  to  get  out  of  Madame's  clutches." 

"  So  I  would,  my  dear.  Then  you  can  go  to  the  opera 
like  a  young  lady,  not  a  school-girl  !  "  returns  her  visitor, 
folding  up  the  check  that  she  has  made  payable  to 
"Cash"  and  placing  it  in  her  pocket-book. 

"  Oh  !  another  humiliation,"  pouts  the  girl.  "  You  saw 
me  there  ?  An  opera-class  !  But  it's  very  funny  if  you 
know  the  peculiarities  of  an  opera-class. " 

With  this  her  charming  features  relax  and  she  goes 
laughingly  on  :  "  Whenever  Madame  Lamere  wishes  a 
free  ticket  to  the  opera,  which  is  generally  when  the 
piece  is  popular  and  seats  command  a  high  premium, 
she  makes  up  an  opera-class ;  that  is,  she  orders  four 
or  five  of  her  pupils  to  visit  the  performance  with  her, 
and  so  study  its  music.  The  price  of  the  box  is  divided 
among  the  young  ladies,  she  getting  the  best  seat  for 
nothing  and  making  a  few  dollars  besides,  as  she  charges 
each  girl  the  full  cost  of  a  carriage  to  and  from  the 
place,  but  jams  the  whole  crowd  into  one  hack  with- 
out remorse.  A  fat  girl  sat  on  me  all  the  way  home  last 
night.  You  say  that  handsome  man  who  visited  your 
box  and  talked  to  Tillie  is  Lord  Avonmere  ; — a  British 
title,  is  it  not  ? " 

"  Yes,  my  love,"  answers  the  widow,  getting  effusive. 
"  He  has  one  of  the  oldest  baronies  in  the  English  peer 


138  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

age."  Then  rising  to  go,  she  says,  "I  think  you  would 
enjoy  New  York  society  under  my  chaperonage.  Why 
not  let  me  persuade  your  mamma  to  permit  you  to  leave 
school  now  and  see  a  little  of  it  this  winter  ?  " 

"  Will  you  ?  "  cries  the  girl  ;  "  how  happy  you  make 
me  !  "  and  gives  the  old  lady  such  a  genuine  hug  that 
she  is  astounded,  for  Miss  Flossie  has  been  rather  formal 
in  her  intercourse  with  her  up  to  the  present  moment. 

As  Mrs.  Marvin  leaves,  she  remembers  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  school-girls  and  laughingly  asks,  "  Who  is 
Miss  Nobody  of  Nowhere  ? " 

"Ah,  you  heard  them,"  cries  the  girl,  growing  sud- 
denly red,  but  also  laughing  a  little.  "  My  school  com- 
panions are  not  very  grateful.  I  have  made  them  all 
sick  twice  this  week  with  caramels,  and  they  call  me 
THAT  !  It's  a  polite  reference  to  the  unknown  pedigree 
and  location  of  my  direct  ancestors." 

"It  does  not  seem  to  disturb  you  much,"  says  the 
widow,  biting  her  lip  at  her  unfortunate  question,  being 
a  woman  of  admirable  tact  and  refined  social  instinct. 

"  No,"  answers  the  girl ;  and  then  astonishes  La  Mar- 
vin, for  she  continues,  "  because  I  know  some  day  I'll 
be  Miss  Somebody  of  Somewhere  !  " 

"  How  are  you  sure  of  that  ? "  queries  the  widow,  who 
has  got  to  the  front  door-step. 

"  Oh,"  cries  Miss  Flossie,  "  it's  all  coming  back  to  me. 
Soon  I  shall  know  everything  about  my  former  life  ;  I've 
got  the  cowboy  settled  already  !  " 

With  this  ambiguous  reply  she  closes  the  door,  and 
being  in  an  apparently  happy  frame  of  mind,  forgets 
where  she  is  and  goes  about  the  school  singing  a  noisy 
chanson,  to  the  horror  of  two  French  governesses,  a  pro- 
fessor of  music,  an  English  servant-girl,  and  the  pupils 
in  general,  and  the  vengeance  of  Madame  Lamere,  who 
has  never  heard  such  an  outbreak  in  lesson-time  before 
in  her  select  establishment. 

Getting  into  her  carriage,  Mrs.  Marvin  determines  to 
have  Miss  Flossie  and  her  fortune  out  of  school  at  once, 
so  that  she  may  become  another  business  property. 

And  in  this  she  makes  a  woful  error  ;  for  youthful 
beauty  and  enthusiastic  truth  sometimes  win  the  battle 
of  life  against  the  diplomacy  of  old  age  and  the  machina- 
tions of  speculators. 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  IJ9 

CHAPTER   XIII. 

AN    AMERICAN    LORD. 

THAT  very  evening  Miss  Flossie's  generous  contribu- 
tion for  his  rival's  undoing  is  handed  to  Avonmere  by 
Mrs.  Marvin  ;  that  lady  being  very  careful  not  to  inform 
him  of  the  source  from  which  the  sinews  of  war  arise, 
and  merely  remarking  that  the  money  has  cost  her  a  great 
personal  inconvenience,  which  she  shall  expect  him  to  re- 
member when  he  wins  the  matrimonial  stakes. 

With  this  money  in  his  pocket,  Mrs.  Marvin  having 
transformed  Flossie's  check  into  bills,  Avonmere  strolls 
to  the  Broadway  Theatre,  where  a  Gaiety  Company  direct 
from  London  are  performing  in  an  imported  burlesque, 
and  giving  out  English  concert-hall  jokes  to  an  audience 
composed  largely  of  that  portion  of  young  America  who 
pattern  their  manners,  wit,  and  general  deportment  after 
cockney  snobocracy,  thinking  a  London  chorus-girl  more 
fascinating  than  a  New  York  one,  especially  if  she  makes 
bad  work  of  her  H's. 

Approaching  the  stage  door  of  this  principal  theatre  of 
New  York,  his  lordship  elbows  his  way  through  a  little 
throng  of  these  gentry  who  are  being  kept  at  a  very  re- 
spectful distance  by  the  doorkeeper,  assisted  by  a  special 
policeman  ;  for  the  Broadway  is  run  upon  American  busi- 
ness principles,  and  all  entrance  behind  its  scenes  is 
strictly  forbidden  to  those  who  aspire  to  social  intercourse 
with  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  its  stage. 

In  this  crowd  the  English  aristocrat  gets  an  unexpected 
surprise.  Gussie's  well-known  voice  cries  in  his  ear  : 
"  Avonmere  !  Lord  Avonmere,  old  fellow,  do  you  think 
they'll  let  you  in  ?  That  beast  of  a  doorkeeper  has  just 
refused  to  deliver  a  note  for  me  to  Rosalie  Mountjoy, 
the  most  fetching  little  creature  you  ever  saw.  Her 
accent  is  perfectly  adorable.  Makes  me  think  I'm  in 
Lunon,  yer  know.  I  want  her  to  take  supper  with  me. 
Oh,  dear  !  there's  that  horrid  Frank  Hicks ;  he's  sweet 
on  her  too.  I  must  get  my  note  in  ahead  of  his.  What 
shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Do  ? "  whispers  Avonmere  sternly,  wishing  to  make 
Augustus's  bonds  as  irksome  to  him  as  possible.  "  Re- 


1 40  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

member  that  you're  engaged,  sir,  and  go  home  !  "  and 
he  passes  on,  leaving  his  interrogator  crestfallen  and 
abashed. 

Getting  to  the  doorkeeper  and  pencilling  on  his  card 
a  few  words,  he  asks  that  Cerberus  to  hand  it  to  Mr. 
Chumpie,  one  of  the  comedians  of  the  company.  A  few 
moments  after  word  is  brought  to  him  that  that  gentle- 
man, with  Mr.  Machlin,  another  Thespian,  will  meet  him 
at  supper  at  Delmonico's  as  he  requests. 

These  gentlemen  keep  their  promise,  and,  the  perform- 
ance being  over,  Lord  Avonmere  entertains  his  two  the- 
atrical friends  in  a  little  private  room  in  that  perfect 
restaurant,  with  a  magnificent  menu  and  generous 
wines. 

In  his  younger  and  richer  days  the  English  nobleman 
had  been  somewhat  of  a  patron  of  the  drama,  and  as  such 
had  done  Chumpie  some  favors  when  that  comedian  was 
struggling  to  gain  recognition  on  the  London  boards. 
Mr.  Machlin,  the  leading  character  actor  of  the  company, 
is  also  well  known  to  his  lordship,  and  both  the  players 
are  anxious  to  respond  to  any  wish  of  their  generous 
host. 

Over  their  wine  and  cigars,  Avonmere  proposes  to  the 
two  actors  that  they  take  part  in  a  little  practical  joke  at 
the  expense  of  young  Van  Beekman,  whom  they  have 
seen  several  times  obstructing  the  stage  door,  and  value 
accordingly. 

This  joke  is  of  such  a  peculiar  character  that  they  at 
first  look  aghast,  but  as  their  noble  entertainer  goes  into 
details  they  burst  into  such  shrieks  of  laughter  that  Avon- 
mere  fears  they  will  disturb  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  in 
adjoining  rooms. 

When  they  are  calm  again,  he  goes  on,  explaining  to 
them  that  this  hoax  can  hurt  nobody,  and  is  certainly 
inside  the  law,  and  that  when  it  comes  out  it  will  make 
the  two  Thespians  famous  as  did  some  of  the  jokes  of 
that  inimitable  farceur,  both  on  and  off  the  stage— the 
elder  Sothern — or  that  great  American  comedian,  the  late 
John  T.  Raymond.  "  In  fact,  it  will  as  good  as  double 
your  salary  if  you  come  over  to  New  York  next  season," 
he  persuasively  suggests. 

To  this  Chumpie,  who  is  a  large,  unctuous  man,  gives 
&  grin  and  says  :  "  Machlin  and  I  get  reputation  from 


MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE.  141 

this  hoax;  but  your  lordship,  who  I  presume  will  pay 
us  for  our  acting,  and  put  up  a  pot  of  money  to  prove 
to  our  little  American  friend  that  he  has  a  rent  roll  across 
the  herring  pond — what  do  you  get  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  replies  his  host,  "  I  get  rid  of  a  rival  ;  "  and  see- 
ing that  he  must  explain  his  position  to  obtain  the  aid  of 
these  gentlemen  of  the  stage,  who  are  pretty  sharp  men 
of  the  world  also,  he  gives  them  the  whole  truth  of  his 
plot  to  induce  Mr.  Van  Beekman  to  jilt  the  Western 
heiress. 

u  If  he's  such  a  cad  as  that,"  replies  Machlin,  "  I'll  help 
you  down  him  with  all  the  stage  art  I  possess." 

"  And  I'll  play  the  New  York  solicitor  to  this  little 
wretch's  present  glory  and  ultimate  destruction!  "  laughs 
Chumpie. 

"  Very  well,"  answers  their  host,  "  I'll  engage  your 
offices  and  notify  you  to-morrow  morning.  Dress  re- 
hearsal at  two  P.  M.  sharp,  and  a  hundred  dollars  a  per- 
formance." 

With  this  the  two  English  actors  say  good-night,  leav- 
ing their  host  in  a  very  affable  humor,  enjoying  his  cigar 
and  inspecting  his  project  from  every  point  of  view  be- 
tween smoke  puffs. 

Some  two  days  after  Lord  Avonmere's  theatrical  sup^ 
per  party  at  Delmonico's,  little  Van  Beekman,  dallying 
with  a  late  breakfast,  for  which  he  affects  an  appetite  he 
does  not  possess,  looks  over  his  morning's  mail. 

Among  his  letters  is  one  upon  which  he  gazes  with 
suspicion  and  aversion.  It  has  a  legal  aspect,  its  en- 
velope bearing  the  names  of  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co., 
Attorneys  and  Counsellors  at  Law,  No.  61  Wall  Street, 
and  lawyers'  letters  have  not  been  pleasant  reading  to 
him  in  the  past  few  months. 

He  greets  this  with  a  subdued  imprecation  and  tosses 
it  away  from  him,  as  if  he  imagined  its  outside  predicted 
that  its  inside  would  be  decidedly  not  to  his  taste  nor 
liking. 

He  mutters  :  "  I  thought  the  news  of  my  going  to 
marry  Miss  Bullion  would  have  quieted  these  fish. 
Here's  a  shark  who  does  not  read  the  papers  !  "  Then 
he  moans  :  "  My  heavens  !  what  a  head  I  have  accumu- 
lated over  night !  "  and  presses  the  afflicted  member  with 
his  two  white  plump  little  hands,  and  groans,  "  I  wonder  it 


142  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

Avonmere  is  used  up  likewise  ? "  for  he  and  that  noble- 
man, who  has  become  his  chum  and  intimate,  have  been 
making  a  very  gay  night  of  it,  after  having  spent  the  ear- 
lier portion  of  the  evening  at  a  dance  given  by  Mrs.  Van 
Courtland  Jones, 

Almost  at  this  moment  Avonmere  enters  the  room,  for 
the  chumship  has  become  so  close  between  them  that 
this  gentleman  has  taken  apartments  in  the  same  house 
as  Mr.  Gussie,  and  the  two  breakfast  together  both  for 
company  and  economy. 

"  A  little  seedy  also,  old  boy  !  "  cries  Augustus.  "  Try 
a  B.  and  S." 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  haven't  a  headache,"  returns  Avon- 
mere.  "  You'd  better  try  another  ;  you  need  it  !  If  you 
don't  mind,  I'd  like  some  of  that  omelet,  though  ;  "  and 
he  proceeds  to  make  a  hearty  breakfast,  occasionally 
dipping  into  his  letters,  of  which  there  are  quite  a  pile 
beside  his  plate. 

Little  Gussie  sits  watching  him,  gazing  at  one  or  two 
of  these  epistles  with  envious  eyes,  their  monograms  and 
crests  denoting  they  are  from  houses  to  which  he  has  not 
me  entree,  for  New  York  society  has  not  forgotten  the  past 
offences  of  its  native-born  offender,  though  perfectly 
willing  to  ignore  the  news  of  any  indiscretions  that  have 
been  wafted  over  the  ocean  to  the  discredit  of  an  English 
peer  of  the  realm.  Even  the  news  of  his  engagement 
to  the  Western  heiress  has  not  altogether  obliterated  Mr. 
Gussie's  shortcomings,  and  as  yet  the  heads  of  the  Van 
Beekman  and  De  Punster  families  have  taken  no  notice 
of  his  improved  financial  prospects,  by  word  or  deed. 

Toward  the  end  of  his  meal  a  curious  little  incident 
happens.  Lord  Avonmere  catches  sight  of  the  note  his 
companion  had  tossed  away  from  him  nearly  to  his  side 
of  the  table.  "Hello,"  he  remarks,  "another  letter  for 
me  !  "  and  picks  the  missive  up  apparently  to  open  it. 

"  Excuse  me,"  interjects  Gussie  suddenly,  "  that  is  my 
letter,  dear  boy." 

"  So  it  is,"  returns  Avonmere,  glancing  at  the  address. 
Then  he  hands  the  note  to  Van  Beekman,  saying  :  "  It 
was  quite  a  natural  mistake,  though.  Stillman,  Myth  & 
Co.  are  the  American  agents  of  my  London  solicitors 
I've  had  one  or  two  interviews  with  them  since  I've  been 
here." 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  143 

"  Kind  of  lawyers  to  be  hard  upon  a  fellah  ? "  asks 
little  Gussie,  nervously,  as  he  inspects  the  letter. 

"  No,  I  should  think  not ;  rather  conservative,  old- 
fogy  sort  of  firm.  Safe  and  sure.  Do  a  large  English 
business,"  murmurs  the  lord,  turning  to  his  breakfast 
again,  but  seeming  to  make  bad  work  of  it,  as  his  coffee 
goes  the  wrong  way,  causing  him  to  splutter  and  gasp  as 
if  convulsed. 

A  moment  after  Van  Beekman  desperately  opens  the 
envelope,  Avonmere  glancing  at  him  as  he  does  so  with 
a  kind  of  mocking  smile.  This  changes  into  a  grin  as 
little  Gussie  cries,  "  Well,  I'm  blessed !  What  can  it 
mean  ? "  and  hurriedly  and  excitedly  reads  to  his  noble 
listener  the  following  note  written  upon  the  office  paper 
of  the  firm  signing  it : 

NEW  YORK,  January  -jfA,  1890. 

A.  DE  PUNSTER  VAN  BEEKMAN,  ESQ..) 
No.  33$  West  37th  Street.  J 

DEAR  SIR  : — 

Our  London  advices  bring  us  news  of  the  utmost  importance  as 
well  as  good  fortune  to  you. 

The  information  is  of  such  magnitude  and  detail  that  we  beg  of 
you  to  do  us  the  honor  to  call  at  our  office  immediately  upon  the  re- 
ceipt of  this. 

One  of  our  firm  would  have  waited  upon  you  in  person,  but  the 
documents  sent  to  us,  which  could  never  be  replaced  or  reproduced, 
are  of  such  financial  as  well  as  social  value  that  we  dare  not  trust 
them  out  of  our  safe  ;  and  it  is  necessary  for  you  to  examine  them 
in  person. 

Trusting  you  will  honor  and  oblige  us  with  an  immediate  call, 
we  are, 

Your  most  obedient  and  humble  servants, 

STILLMAN,  MYTH  &  Co. 

"A  deuced  polite  note,"  murmurs  Avonmere. 

"  Too  deuced  polite,"  echoes  Gussie  ;  "  I  wonder  if  it 
can  be  a  plant  ? " 

At  this  his  vis-a-vis  gets  very  red  in  the  face  and  looks 
uneasy  ;  but  a  second  after,  catching  Van  Beekman's 
meaning,  laughs  till  the  tears  roll  down  his  cheeks. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  amusing,  if  those  chaps  get 


<44  MISS    NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

me  down  there  on  this  letter  and  serve  a  summons  of 
writ  or  some  other  cursed  legal  thumb-screw  to  twist  the 
dollars  out  of  my  pocket ! "  cries  Augustus,  angrily. 
<(  Did  you  ever  have  an  attachment  clapped  on  you  ? 
How  did  it  feel  then  ? 

"  They'd  never  have  got  themselves  so  down  in  the 
dust  to  get  service  on  you  of  that  kind,"  answers  Avon- 
mere,  getting  his  breath  and  voice  again.  "  I  never  had 
such  a  humble  letter  from  lawyers  in  my  life.  Oh,  yes, 
I  did  once,"  he  suddenly  corrects  himself  ;  "  the  notifica- 
tion that  I  had  become  a  peer  of  the  realm,  from  my 
solicitors,  was  just  about  as  cringing  a  communication  as 
that  is." 

"You  think  it's  safe  to  go?"  queries  Gussie,  anx- 
iously. 

"  I  think  if  I  had  received  such  a  letter  as  that  from 
guch  a  firm  as  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co.,  I  should  expect  at 
least  a  pot  of  money  left  me  by  will,  or  some  other  unex- 
pected good  fortune,  and  should  be  down  there  as  fast  as 
<ine  elevated  railway  could  take  me  to  their  office,"  returns 
Avonmere,  very  seriously. 

"  If  that's  your  idea,  I'm  off  at  once."  With  these  words 
Mr.  Gussie  rings  for  his  valet  and  gets  under  way  for 
Wall  Street  with  a  most  cheerful  alacrity. 

A  few  minutes  later  Avonmere  puts  on  his  overcoat 
and  saunters  up  Fifth  Avenue.  As  he  is  passing  the 
reservoir  he  meets  Mrs.  Marvin  taking  an  early  walk, 
either  for  shopping  or  exercise. 

Her  face  is  red,  but  as  she  catches  sight  of  him  it 
grows  pale  and  anxious.  Coming  to  him  she  says  ner- 
vously, "  Has  he  got  the  note  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  he's  flying  down  to  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co.'s," 
laughs  his  lordship. 

"  You  are  sure  every  precaution  has  been  taken  ? "  she 
goes  on. 

"Certainly,"  he  replies.  "Chumpie,  Machlin,  and  I 
had  another  dress  rehearsal  yesterday,  I  playing  the  part 
of  the  embryo  Bassington.  Chumpie  was  so  inimitable  as 
the  lawyer  that  I  nearly  laughed  myself  sick."  Then 
his  eyes  become  excited  also  as  he  asks,  "  How  is  my 
darl —  ? "  He  does  not  continue  the  sentence,  but  re- 
marks casually,  "  Miss  Follis  is  well,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  says  the  widow.      "  I've   had  exercise 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  145 

enough  and  am  about  to  turn  back ;  will  you  mind  walk- 
ing beside  me  ? " 

"  Not  if  you  will  take  me  into  the  house  when  I  get  to 
the  door-step,"  laughs  the  Englishman. 

"  It's  rather  early,"  murmurs  Mrs.  Marvin,  "  but  as 
you're  quite  a  friend  of  the  family  now,  you  can  come 
along." 

Then  the  two  stroll  up  the  avenue,  Avonmere's  eyes 
glowing  and  flashing  and  becoming  more  Italian  as  he 
gets  nearer  to  a  morning  view  of  Miss  Follis's  piquant 
beauty. 

While  this  is  going  on  up-town,  Augustus  Van  Beek- 
man  is  hurrying  to  Wall  Street  as  fast  as  an  elevated 
train  can  carry  him. 

Arrived  at  the  address  mentioned  in  Stillman,  Myth  & 
Co.'s  note,  he  ascends  by  the  elevator  to  find  their  offices 
upon  the  third  floor  of  the  building.  Entering  their  place 
of  business,  which  is  rather  small  for  a  firm  having  a 
large  legal  connection,  the  general  appearance  of  the 
offices  pleases  little  Gussie,  for  it  is  intensely  legal  and 
very  English.  Files  of  the  London  Times  and  Telegraph 
are  prominent,  to  the  exclusion  of  New  York  jour- 
nals ;  piles  of  neatly  tied-up  and  red-taped  documents 
encumber  the  desk  and  office  table,  and  a  number  of  tin 
boxes  are  in  racks  prepared  for  them.  The  printed 
labels  upon  some  of  these  impress  his  feeble  mind  as  he 
notes:  "THE  MARQUIS  OF  NOTHINGHAM'S  AMERICAN 
PROPERTY,"  "  MORTON,  BLISS  &  Co.,"  "  LORD  COM- 
BERMOOR'S  NEBRASKA  INVESTMENTS,"  "  ST.  Louis  BEER 
SYNI'CATE,"  "  LORD  AVONMERE,"  "  MICHIGAN  SOUTH- 
ERN CONTRACTS,'*  etc.,  etc.  With  such  noble  investors 
for  clients  and  gigantic  financial  enterprises  to  manage, 
the  little  fellow  feels  this  great  legal  firm  would  never 
trouble  itself  to  collect  a  tailor's  or  haberdasher's  bills, 
and  feels  more  easy  in  his  mind. 

He  has  not  time  for  much  thought,  however,  being 
apparently  expected.  The  moment  he  enters  a  white- 
headed  old  clerk  bows  to  the  ground  before  him  and 
saya  :  "  Mr.  Van  Beekman,  I  believe  ?  Mr.  Stillman, 
the  head  of  the  house,  has  waited,  hoping  you  might  do 
ua  the  honor  to  call  this  morning.  He  will  see  you  at 
once."  Then  with  another  bow  and  a  kindly  twinkle  in 
his  old  eyes,  this  gentleman,  who  wears  a  blue  swallow 


146  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERB. 

tail  coat  with  brass  buttons,  and  who  is  in  both  action 
and  get-up  exactly  the  English  solicitor's  head  clerk  one 
sees  upon  the  stage,  ushers  him  into  the  private  sanctum 
of  Mr.  Stillman. 

Before  Augustus  is  fairly  in  the  room,  that  lawyer,  who 
is  of  portly  build  and  pompous  yet  deferential  demeanor, 
is  speaking  to  him. 

He  ejaculates,  "  My  dear  sir — my  very  dear  sir,"  and 
bows  and  squirms  and  writhes  before  the  astounded 
Gussie  in  a  way  that  makes  that  young  gentleman 
think,  "  No  writ  of  attachment  here — not  if  I  know 
myself." 

Thus  reassured,  the  little  fellow  becomes  thoroughly 
at  his  ease  and  remarks  :  "  Awh  ! — how  are  yer  ?  " 

To  this  Mr.  Stillman  returns :  "  Quite  well,  I  thank 

you,  my "  but  mumbles  his  last  word  with  another 

obsequious  bow. 

"  Jarvis,  a  chair  for  his ."  He  again  checks  him- 
self, and  the  head  clerk  doing  as  he  is  bid,  Mr.  Van 
Beekman,  who  has  looked  at  this  in  a  nonchalant  sort  of 
way,  is  soon  seated  beside  the  lawyer's  office  table,  upon 
which  are  various  portentous  documents,  including  an 
immense  family  pedigree,  and  Debrett's  and  Burke's 
Peerages. 

"  Jarvis,  until  this  interview  and revelation  are 

over,"  remarks  Mr.  Stiilman,  pompously,  "  I  am  in  to 
aobody." 

"  Not  if  Morton  or  Bliss  call  about  closing  that  con- 
tract of  the  St.  Louis  Beer  Syndicate  with  the  English 
investors  ?  "  asks  the  clerk,  humbly. 

"  Not  even  Morton  or  Bliss.  And  just  another  word 
with  you,  Jarvis,"  answers  the  lawyer,  going  into  the 
outer  office  after  his  departing  clerk. 

When  there  he  closes  the  door  behind  him,  and  little 
Van  Beekman,  whose  pride  has  been  greatly  tickled  that 
his  affairs  should  be  given  precedence  to  those  of  a  great 
banking  house,  wonders  what  the  deuce  the  revelation 
can  be. 

A  moment  after,  Stillman  reenters,  blowing  his  nose, 
tears  coming  from  his  eyes — whether  of  joy  or  sorrow,  it 
is  difficult  to  tell. 

Taking  a  seat  behind  his  desk  and  turning  to  Mr. 
Gussie  he  says,  consulting  every  now  and  then  a  docu- 


MISS   NOBODY   OP   NOWHEfcS.  147 

ment :  "  You  are  the  only  son  of  DeWitt  Van  Beekman 
and  Margaret  Schiedam  de  Punster  ?  " 

«  Yes  ! " 

«<  De  Witt  Van  Beekman  was  the  lawful  issue  of  George 
Morris  Schermerhorn  Van  Beekman  and  Lydia  Mosely 
Bassington  ? " 

"  Y-e-s,  I  think  so,"  mutters  Augustus. 

"  And  Lydia  Mosely  Bassington  was  the  only  daughter 
of  Roderick  de  Vere  de  Ponsonby  Bassington,  a  lieu- 
tenant in  the  Fourth  Burr's,  Howe's  own  Regiment  of  the 
British  army,  which  was  quartered  here  in  New  York 
during  the  Revolution.  While  stationed  in  America  he 
married  Martha  Van  Vlete  Floyd  Smith,  of  Jamaica,  Long 
Island." 

"  That's  the  old  Revolutionary  scandal.  I'm  tired  of 
that !  "  mutters  Van  Beekman,  sulkily. 

"You  needn't  be,"  returns  the  lawyer,  impressively. 
"  That  scandal  we've  been  working  for  months  to  clear 
away,  and  have  done  so.  The  Lord  Chancellor  of  Eng- 
land has  declared  the  union  legal ;  that  Roderic  Bassing- 
ton's  marriage  with  Lady  Clara  Alice  Vestris  Follomby 
was  bigamous — bigamous,  sir! — and  that  you,  his  legal 
descendant,  are  heir  to  said  Bassington  by  lineal  descent 
in  the  female  line ;  that  is,  to  you  comes  all  that  his 
daughter  Lydia  Mosely  Bassington  should  have  inher- 
ited." 

"  Why,  he's  been  dead  a  hundred  years,"  returns  Au- 
gustus. 

"  What's  a  hundred  years  to  English  law  or  the  Eng- 
lish peerage  ? "  cries  Stillman,  looking  at  his  visitor 
curiously  and  tapping  with  caressing  hand  Burke's  vol- 
ume that  lies  on  the  table  in  front  of  him. 

At  the  word  peerage,  Gussie  grows  more  interested  ; 
he  says :  "Why  don't  yer  come  to  the  point?" 

"You  will  permit  me  to  break  the  matter  to  you 
gently,"  replies  the  lawyer. 

"  Is  it  so  very  horrible  ?  "  gasps  Gussie,  with  pale  face. 

"Just  the  reverse,"  murmurs  Stillman,  blandly.  **  But 
too  sudden  jov  is  sometimes  injurious." 

"  Joy  ! "  cnes  Augustus,  "  I  can  stand  any  amount  of 
that !  Get  to  business  at  once  ! "  Then  he  «ays  eagerly : 
*  I*  it  money  ? " 

*  It  is  more  than  *hat,"  continues  the  lawyer,  gravely, 


148  MISS  NOBODY  OP   NOWHERE. 

"Brown,  Studley  &  Wilberforce,  the  well-known  solicit 
ore,  our  London  correspondents,  wrote  us  some  time  ago 
about  this  matter,  which  is  of  the  greatest  importance  to 
you.  We  have  been  investigating  the  affair  quietly  and 
nave  every  proof  necessary.  Mr.  Myth,  of  our  firm,  has 
been  in  England  on  this  business  over  a  month.  He 
cabled  me  yesterday  that  the  British  Crown  had  with- 
drawn its  interference  and  had  acknowledged  your  claim, 
and  that  Brown,  Studley  &  Wilberforce  were  willing  to 
place  you  in  possession  of  the  estates." 

"  ESTATES  ! "  gasps  little  Gussie,  who  has  been  gazing 
at  him  with  open  mouth  and  rolling  eyes,  dropping  his 
gloves  in  uncontrollable  agitation, 

"Certainly,  estates;  large  ESTATES!  But  more  than 
that ! "  and  the  lawyer  lifts  up  Burke's  volume,  sacred  to 
the  nobility  of  England. 

At  this  little  Gussie  grows  pale,  some  inkling  of  that 
gigantic  bliss  that  afterward  came  to  him  getting  into 
Us  feeble  brain. 

Turning  to  that  part  of  the  book  treating  on  "  Titles  in 
Abeyance,"  Mr.  Stillman  reads  :  "  Hugo  de  Malvoisen  de 
Bassington  came  over  with  William  the  Conqueror,  and 
fighting  right  valiantly  at  Hastings,  received  from  his 
sovereign  estates  in  the  Kentish  hills.  His  descendant, 
Ralph  Beauclerc  de  Bassington,  married  Bertha,  the  heir- 
ess of  the  Saxon  Thane  of  Harrowby,  and  her  dower 
greatly  added  to  the  family  power  and  wealth.  Guy 
Vipont  de  Bassington,  his  son,  being  made  Baron  by  writ 
of  Richard  the  Second  in  1387,  George  Wiltshire  Baron 
Bassington  was  created  Marquis  of  Harrowby  by  Charles 
II,,  retaining  Baron  Bassington  as  the  second  title  of  his 
family. 

"In  1873  Thomas,  Marquis  of  Harrowby  and  Baron 
Bassington,  died  without  issue,  consequently  the  Mar« 
quisate  {descending  only  to  heirs  male}  became  extinct,  but 
the  Barony  of  Bassington,  one  of  the  oldest  in  the  king- 
dom, was  left  in  abeyance." 

With  this  Mr  Stillman  closes  the  book  and  addresses 
his  listener,  who,  hardly  breathing,  looks  wonderingly  at 
him.  "The  tide  of  Baron  Bassington  may  descend 
through  females.  Going  back  to  collateral  branches  oi 
the  family  we  come  to  your  ancestor  of  the  Revolutioa 
Roderic  de  Vere  de  Ponsonby  Bassington." 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  149 

Mr.  Van  Beekman's  cane  falls  to  the  floor  with  an  awful 
crash. 

"  From  him,"  cries  the  lawyer,  unheeding  the  noise, 
*  from  him  comes  to  you,  through  your  female  ancestor, 
Lydia  Mosely  Bassington,  the  estates  of  Harrowby 
Castle  in  Kent,  Beaumanor  in  Lancaster,  and  O'Mara 
House  in  County  Clare,  Ireland,  together  with  various 
personalty  and  the  time-honored  title  of  Baron  Bassing- 
ton of  the  English  peerage.  You  are  now,  my  lord  >: — 
Mr.  Stillman  is  rising  slowly ;  so  is  Gussie,  with  a  pale 
face,  trembling  limbs,  and  rolling  eyes — "  You  are  now, 
my  lord,  A  PEER  OF  THE  BRITISH  REALM,  and  I  am,  my 
lord,  your  very  obedient  servant.  Permit  me  to  humbly 
kiss  your  lordship's  hand." 

Stooping  to  do  obeisance,  the  lawyer  gives  a  yell  of 
terror  ;  for  joy  and  bliss  and  ecstasy  have  been  too  much 
for  little  Gussie,  and  Augustus,  Baron  Bassington  of  the 
English  peerage,  has  fallen  faint  and  limp  into  his 
arms. 

"  Jarvis  !  **  calls  Mr.  Stillman,  getting  his  client  into  a 
chair,  "his  lordship  is  rather  overcome  with  the  news. 
Some  water  for  his  lordship  !  '* 

But  just  at  this  moment  Gussie  springs  up,  crying  out 
wildly  :  "  It  can't  be  true  !  Call  me  that  again,  Stillman, 
call  me  a  lord  again  ! " 

"  What  is  your  lordship's  pleasure  j? "  asks  the  attorney, 
seeming  quite  merry  and  fighting  down  a  laugh. 

"  That's  right,  I  heard  you  !  You  gave  me  my  title  ! 
I'm  a  lord,  an  English  lord  !  Am  I  really,  or  is  it  some 
cursed  dream  from  which  I  shall  awake  to  be  only  an 
American  and  kill  myself  in  despair?"  screams  the  new- 
made  peer. 

His  ravings,  for  now  he  is  nearly  delirious  with  joy  and 
rapture,  seem  to  affect  the  attorney  and  his  clerk  with  a 
hysteria  that  is  difficult  for  them  to  control,  though  they 
fight  it  down,  even  when  Baron  Bassington  suddenly  seizes 
Burke,  turns  to  his  title,  and  cries  out :  "  Jove  !  what  a 
lovely  coat-of-arms !  Two  lions  rampant  supporting  a 
baron's  coronet." 

After  a  time  his  excitement  becomes  somewhat  less, 
and  he  pulls  himself  together  a  little  and  remarks,  "  This 
news  rather  takes  the  form  out  of  a  man,  don't  yet 
know  I  "  and  suddenly  gasps  once  more,  "  I  can't  believe 


I5«  MISS  NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

it !  "  Then  turning  to  his  lawyer  he  says,  looking  at  him 
very  earnestly  and  imploringly,  "You  are  certain  that 
you  have  made  no  mistake,  that  I  am  an  English 
lord  ?  " 

"  I  am  as  certain,"  returns  that  gentleman,  with  a  gulp 
in  his  voice,  "that  you  are  Baron  Bassington  of  the 
British  peerage,  and  entitled  to  a  seat  in  the  House  of 
Lords,  as  that  I  am  Harold  Stebbins  Stillman,  of  the  firm 
of  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co.,  Counsellors  and  Attorneys  at 
Law  and  Proctors  in  Admiralty." 

"  That  being  the  case,"  says  Mr.  Van  Beekman,  quietly 
reseating  himself,  "  I'll  take  something  on  account." 

"Something  on  account — oh,  ah,  yes  !  Your  lordship 
would  like  to  touch  a  portion  of  your  rent-roll  ? "  replies 
Mr.  Stillman,  blandly.  "  That  was  anticipated  by  your 
London  solicitors.  Brown,  Studley  &  Wilberforce  cabled 
some  money  over  for  your  account  yesterday." 

"  Yaas !  Then  you  can — awh — give  me  a  check  for  a 
thousand  !  "  remarks  Gussie. 

"  Jarvis,  a  check  for  a  thousand  dollars  for  his  lord- 
ship, at  once  !  "  says  the  attorney. 

"  Dollars  ?  "  laughs  Augustus.  "  My  poor  Stillman,  don't 
you  know  the  unit  of  the  English  aristocracy  impounds  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  you  put  it  on  that  basis,  Lord  Bassing- 
ton," he  says,  and  goes  into  the  next  room. 

A  moment  later  he  returns,  remarking  :  "  I  was  com- 
pelled to  make  this  out  to  the  order  of  Mr.  Augustus 
Van  Beekman,  as  you  are  not  yet  known  in  the  bank- 
ing world  under  your  true  title,"  and  hands  that  gen- 
tleman a  check  for  five  thousand  dollars  on  the  Park 
National.  "Would  your  lordship  please  sign  a  receipt 
for  this?"  He  passes  a  pen  to  Gussie,  whose  little 
heart  beats  with  pride  as  he  signs,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  after  the  fashion  of  the  English  nobility,  "  Bas- 
sington." 

"  You  can  open  an  account  with  this  check,  your  lord- 
ship, under  the  name  of  Bassington,  by  which,  after  this, 
our  firm  will  address  its  communications  to  you.  We 
must,  however,  notify  you  that  this  amounWs  all  that  has 
been  cabled  over.  If  you  wish  further  funds  we  will  for- 
ward your  draft  on  Brown,  Studley  &  Wilberforce  to  Lon- 
don for  collection,  and  the  returns  will  be  here  in  a  little 
fver  two  weeks." 


MISS   NOBODY   OP   NOWHERE.  15! 

"  Yaas.  Tell  Jarvis  to  draw  on  my  London  solicitors 
for  five  thousand  pounds,"  says  Augustus,  grandly  Then 
with  a  sudden  interest  he  asks,  "  What  is  my  income  from 
my  English  estates  ? " 

"  That  I'm  unable  to  state  with  absolute  accuracy,  but 
I  believe  it  is  between  thirty  and  fifty  thousand  pounds 
a  year,  your  lordship." 

"  Humph  I  Tell  Jarvis  to  draw  for  ten  thousand,'' 
cries  Gussie. 

"  Certainly,  my  lord,"  mutters  Stillman,  struggling 
with  a  grin  ;  "  but  I  deem  it  my  duty  to  inform  you  thai 
the  tenants  upon  your  Irish  property  are  somewhat  be- 
hind in  their  rents." 

"  The  devil  they  are  ?  "  says  his  lordship,  in  a  severe 
and  awful  voice.  "  Then  evict  the  scoundrels  at  once  ! 
Advise  Brown,  Studley  &  Wilberforce  that  Lord  Bas- 
sington's  instructions  are  to  evict  AT  ONCE  ! " 

"Y-e-s,  your  lordship,"  gulps  Stillman,  who  pops 
his  head  into  a  drawer  of  his  desk  and  seems  over- 
come at  this  order,  for  when  he  raises  his  eyes  to  his 
client  his  face  is  very  red  and  there  are  tears  on  his 
cheeks. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  sir !  "  cries  the  new- 
made  lord  ;  "  you  seem  amused." 

"  No,  my  lord,  not  amused,  but — affected,"  returns  the 
lawyer,  very  slowly.  "  Does  your  lordship  know  the 
cruelty  of  these  sudden  evictions — how  the  poor  tenants 
are  turned  out  into  the  road  to  starve  ?  " 

"  I  know  the  villains  don't  pay  their  rents,"  interrupts 
Gussie,  "  and  that  s.  lawyer's  duty  is  to  do  what  he  is 
told  ! " 

Crushed  by  this  rebuke,  Mr.  Stillman  mutters  :  "  Cer- 
tainly, my  lord."  And  Jarvis  having  brought  the  draft 
for  ten  thousand  pounds  to  him,  their  noble  client  signs 
it  "  Bassington,"  and  says  :  "  Deposit  this  to  the — awh 
— account  of  Bassington  at  Second  National  Bank  as 
soon  as  collected.  You  can  send  in  your  bill  also  at  the 
same  time." 

With  this  hfc  rises  and  begins  to  draw  on  his  gloves. 

"  We  will  send  in  our  bill,  my  lord,  if  you  so  desire," 
assents  the  attorney.  "  But,  my  lord,  we  had  hoped  to 
have  the  honor  of  doing  your  American  business,  aa 
Brown,  Studley  &  Wilberforce  are  anxious  to  manage  yoiu 


152  MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE. 

European  properties."  This  last  Stillman  emphasizes  H 
a  bow  that  Is  low  enough  and  humble  enough  for  an 
obeisance. 

His  humility  causes  greater  hauteur  on  the  part  of  his 
client.  Little  Gussie  draws  himself  up  and  says :  "  Yaas, 
Avonmere  recommended  you  to  me  over  our  breakfast 
this  morning.  I  shall  take  that  into  consideration. — Jar- 
vis,  a  cab  for  me,  my  man." 

To  this  the  clerk  answers,  "  Yes,  your  lordship,"  and 
bolts  from  the  office  ;  but  getting  outside  clinches  his 
fists  and  mutters  :  "  Curse  his  impertinence  !  "  but  does 
his  errand. 

Meantime  Gussie  chats  condescendingly  with  the  law- 
yer. 

"  Stillman,  do  you  know  you're  rather  like  that  infernal 
bad  actor,  Chumpie,  of  the  Broadway  ?  Your  manner  and 
style  are  like  his,  but  your  face  has  not  the  humor  in  it !  " 
he  remarks  superciliously. 

"  Your  lordship  has  seen  the  gentleman  act  ?  "  asks  the 
attorney,  growing  very  red  in  the  face. 

"  Oh,  yaas  !  I've  seen  him  of  ten,  but  I  did  not  go  there 
to  see  him  ;  little  Rosalie  Mount  joy  was  my  attraction." 
And  he  gives  him  a  sickening  wink  and  leer. 

Then  he  runs  on,  telling  the  lawyer  that  he  guesses  the 
reporters  '11  be  after  him  before  night.  "  I  shall  refer  the 
^beggars  to  you,  Stillman,"  he  adds. 

"If  you  do  that,  my  lord,"  says  the  attorney  shortly, 
"  we  shall  be  compelled  to  throw  up  your  business." 

"  Throw  up  my  business  ?  " 

"  Certainly  !  because  the  gentlemen  of  the  newspapers 
will  so  crowd  this  office  that  we  won't  be  able  to  do  any- 
body else's  business." 

"  Ah,"  remarks  Gussie.  "  I  see.  I'll  refer  to  my  Lon- 
don solicitors ;  they're  farther  away."  Then  he  runs 
on,  declaring  that  he  shortly  will  go  to  England,  and  that 
he  will  give  his  personal  attention  to  matters  connected 
with  his  large  landed  property.  "  By  Jove  !  it's  a  noble- 
man's duty  !  "  cries  Augustus.  "  I'll  down  that  low  gro- 
velling leveller  Gladstone  the  first  day  I  sit  in  the  House 
of  Lords." 

"  Certainly ;  but  to  do  that  your  lordship  will  be  com- 
pelled to  renounce  your  American  citizenship,"  returns 
the  lawyer. 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  153 

"  Lord  Bassington's  cab  !  "  interrupts  Jarvis,  showing 
hie  face  at  the  door. 

"  OH,  CURSE  AMERICA  ! "  says  Mr.  Gussie.  "  Don't  for- 
get that  draft,  Stillman  !  "  And  this  little  patriot  depart^ 
leaving  the  lawyer  and  his  clerk  gazing  at  each  other. 

Then  the  first,  with  a  jeer  and  a  laugh,  yells,  "  Oh, 
Boycotts  and  Parnell  !  He'll  turn  out  all  the  tenants 
on  his  Irish  estates,"  and  he  imitates  little  Gussie,  giving 
his  eviction  sentiments  with  much  affected  haughtiness. 

•'  The  impudent  little  beggar  !  "  cries  the  other.  "  It's 
lucky  he  left  or  I  should  have  kicked  his  lordship  down- 
stairs. '  Jarvis,  a  cab  for  me,  my  man.'  " 

"  He  said  I  was  a  bad  actor,"  mutters  the  lawyer.  "  I 
pray  the  Lord  I'm  good  enough  for  his  undoing  !  " 

With  these  ominous  words  Mr.  Stillman  looks  at  his 
watch  and  ejaculates,  "  One  o'clock,  Machlin  ;  just  time 
to  get  to  the  theatre  for  rehearsal." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

PETE   ENTERS   SOCIETY. 

"  SECOND  National  Bank  like  a  streak  !  "  screams  the 
new-made  lord  to  the  driver,  as  he  jumps  into  the  hack 
at  61  Wall  Street.  Then  he  suddenly  cries,  "Drive 
slow  ! — Be  careful  ! — Five  dollars  if  you  get  me  home 
without  accident !  "  for  the  fact  has  just  entered  his 
head  that  he  has  suddenly  become  very  precious. 

This  morning  he  recklessly  came  down-town  on  the  ele- 
vated railroad  ;  this  afternoon  the  cab  must  go  very  slowly 
and  gingerly  on  its  way.  So  Augustus  Baron  Bassing- 
ton  is  driven  cautiously  up-town  in  a  very  daze  of  rapt- 
ure. The  sun  is  brighter,  the  day  is  more  pleasant, 
though  the  people  in  the  streets  seem  more  lowly  and  of 
poorer  clay  to  this  newly-manufactured  nobleman. 

As  he  passes  his  friends  his  bow  is  very  haughty  and 
distant.  He  hardly  returns  the  salute  of  Mr.  Grayson, 
who  is  on  the  sidewalk  at  the  corner  of  Wall  and  Nassau 
streets,  and  who  calls  after  him,  "Hello,  Gussie, my  boy! 
After  your  Baby  mine  dividends  ?  " 

"  Disgusting,  vulgar  creature,"  muses  this  peer  of  re- 


154  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE, 

cent  manufacture.  "  You'll  see  what  a  dividend  I've 
drawn.  I  shall  cut  you,  my  boy,  very  soon  ;  and  I've 
other  social  scores  to  pay.  Baby  mine  dividends  ?  "  He 
gives  a  start  as  this  comes  into  his  mind,  and  mutters, 
"  Wonder  if  they  had  any  idea  of  this.  Marvin  has  the 
peerage  at  her  ringer  ends  ;  perhaps  she  gave  Matilde  a 
hint  to  trap  me  before  I  knew  my  rank.  Perhaps  she 
thinks  I'll  sully  old  Hugo  de  Bassington's  Norman 
blood.  Perhaps  ?  "  And  assuming  a  most  virtuous  and 
indignant  look  Mr.  Gussie  sinks  back  in  the  hack  and 
tries  to  think  how  he  can  escape  his  promise  to  the  West- 
ern  heiress,  and  leave  himself  and  his  sang  azure  free  to 
marry  the  daughter  of  a  duke. 

A  moment  after  he  raps  with  his  cane  on  the  cab  win- 
dow and  calls,  "  Park  National  Bank — quick  !  "  for  it 
has  suddenly  struck  him  he  had  just  as  well  get  his  check 
certified.  That  will  be  an  absolute  settler  to  the  slightest 
suspicion  of  a  doubt ;  that  will  down  any  sneering  unbe- 
liever in  his  social  and  financial  windfall. 

In  a  few  moments  he  enters  this  great  money  ex- 
change, and  getting  to  the  paying-teller's  window  pauses 
and  trembles,  fearing  there  may  have  been  some  mis- 
take ;  but  a  moment  after,  remembering  the  genteelly 
imposing  business  connection  of  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co., 
he  plucks  up  courage  and  says  :  "  Certify  this,  please  !  " 

Then  his  little  heart  gives  one  great  long  jump  of  tri- 
umphant joy  as  that  official  puts  the  stamp  of  this  great 
financial  institution  upon  it,  and  initials  it,  and  makes  it 
good  for  its  $5,000  face  beyond  peradventure  ;  for  to 
Gussie  he  is  also  certifying  that  Augustus  Van  Beekman 
has  estates  in  England  and  Ireland,  and  is  Baron  Bass- 
ington  to  boot. 

There  is  no  doubt  of  his  wealth,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
of  his  rank,  both  come  from  the  same  source.  He  is  a 
Peer  of  the  British  Realm  as  surely  as  the  Duke  of  West- 
minster. He  astounds  the  telter  by  crying,  "  Money 
talks  !  "  and  joy  and  ecstasy  making  his  step  light,  springs 
into  his  cab  once  more  to  drive  up-town  to  his  haunts  and 
clubs,  to  strike  his  cronies  mad  with  envy,  to  make  girls 
who  had  snubbed  and  matrons  who  had  ignored  little 
Gussie  Van  Beekman  bow  down  and  do  homage  before 
Augustus  Baron  Bassington  of  the  Peerage  of  England 
— to  be  the  sensation  of  the  hour  and  talk  of  the  town, 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  155 

for  into  his  little  caddish>  selfish  mind,  in  all  his  good 
fortune,  there  never  comes  one  thought  of  how  he  shall, 
in  his  happiness,  make  one  other  person  on  this  earth, 
happier  or  more  blessed  by  the  great  wealth  and  grand 
social  position  this  day  has  brought  to  him. 

At  Brentano's  he  buys  Burke 's  Peerage  of  the  year 
and  turns  down  the  leaf  at  Bassington.  At  Tiffany's  he 
orders  the  following : 


besides  unlimited  stationery  with  his  coronet,  crest,  coat- 
of-arms,  and  motto  in  full  on  both  envelopes  and  paper. 
These  he  instructs  them  to  have  ready  next  day,  if  they 
work  all  night  to  do  it.  Speed  is  everything ;  expense 
nothing ! 

Then  he  turns  his  face  to  the  Second  National  Bank, 
and  entering  the  portals  of  that  establishment,  he  meets 
Phil  Everett. 

"  I  am  going  to  open  an  account  here.  They  don't 
know  me.  Would  you  mind  introducing  me,  Phil  ?  "  he 
remarks  to  his  old-time  college  companion. 

"  Certainly,"  says  Everett,  who  looks  but  little  older, 
though  perhaps  a  little  stouter,  than  Pete  the  cowboy, 
for  a  Boston  capitalist  generally  has  daintier  fare  and 
less  exercise  than  come  to  the  vaquero  of  a  New  Mexi 
can  cattle  range.  And  taking  him  into  the  private  office 
he  presents  him  to  the  cashier  of  this  institution  as  Mr. 
Augustus  Van  Beekman. 

"  That's  all  right  as  to  cashing  the  check,"  says  Gussie 
flippantly,  "but  as  regards  opening  the  account  I'm 
Baron  Bassington  of  the  English  peerage,  yer  know." 
Then  he  cries  suddenly  :  "  You  needn't  look  at  me  as  if  I 
were  a  lunatic  or  embezzler  !  "  For  Phil  is  gazing  at  him 
in  a  suspicious  way,  and  the  cashier  is  examining  hif 
check  with  curious  eyes. 


I<j(5  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

With  this  he  gives  them  a  hurried  synopsis  of  his  in- 
terview with  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co.,  and  remarks  senten- 
tiously  :  "  People  don't  plank  down  a  thousand  pounds 
unless  they  know  what  they  are  doing." 

"  The  check  is  certainly  good,"  replies  the  cashier,  to 
whom  the  certification  of  the  Park  National  is  as  well 
known  as  his  own  signature.  "You  wish  to  open  an 
account  with  this  ?  " 

"  Certainly  !  " 

"  Then  place  your  signature  here,"  and  Mr.  Gussie,  for 
a  third  time  this  day,  proudly  writes  :  "  Bassington. " 

Passing  out  of  the  bank,  Gussie  suggests  going  to 
the  Brevoort  with  Everett,  stating  he  would  like  to  see 
Lord  Grousemoor  and  ask  him  a  few  questions  as  to  his 
new-found  title.  "Get  a  few  pointers,  yer  know,"  he 
adds. 

To  this  Phil,  who  has  never  seen  any  great  harm  in  the 
little  fellow's  affectations,  assents,  and  they  drive  down 
Fifth  Avenue  to  this  most  old-fashioned  but  aristocratic 
hotel,  where  going  up  to  the  Everett  apartments  they 
find  Miss  Bessie  and  the  Scotch  marquis,  who  have  just 
returned  from  one  of  the  Philharmonic  rehearsals  and 
are  seated  in  the  parlor. 

To  them  Phil  tells  Gussie's  wonderful  story,  and  the 
two  heartily  congratulate  him,  Miss  Bessie  playfully  re- 
marking that  she  had  always  believed  little  Gussie  wore 
his  eye-glass  like  a  true  British  aristocrat,  whereas  her 
future  lord  and  master  never  has  sported  any  and  she  has 
grave  doubts  of  the  genuineness  of  his  title. 

Whereat  Grousemoor  cries  out,— that  he  dropped  all 
insignia  of  rank  when  he  crossed  the  sea  to  win  a  Puri- 
tan maiden.  He  had  supposed  they  would  not  find 
favor  in  her  eyes,  but  to-morrow  he  shall  put  on  a  regu- 
lar Pall  Mall  appearance  for  his  fiances  benefit.  For 
these  two  are  going  to  be  wed  in  Trinity  Church,  Boston, 
in  about  a  month,  and  have  no  foolish  affectation  in  talk- 
ing about  it.  A  moment  after  the  Scotch  nobleman 
remarks  :  "  A  great  responsibility  has  been  placed  upon 
you,  Lord  Bassington." 

At  which  Gussie  gasps  "  Yaas,"  and  colors  with  joy 
and  pride,  it  being  the  first  time  he  has  been  given  his 
title  from  one  who  is,  as  he  expresses  it  himself,  a 
knoter  "  in  his  own  rank. 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  157 

•  You  have,  I  hope,  some  idea  of  the  responsibility  of 
your  position,  some  notion  of  English  politics  ?  **  Grouse- 
moor  goes  on,  for  his  ancestors  had  fought  for  bonny 
Prince  Charley,  and,  like  all  Scotchmen,  he  believes  in 
traditions,  and  is  consequently  a  stanch  old  Tory. 

"  Yaas,  pretty  well  up,  thank  you,"  lisps  Gussie.  "  I've 
got  an  opinion  of  Gladdy  and  his  Irish  policy  that'll 
make  him  dizzy  when  he  hears  it." 

At  this  a  little  snicker  comes  from  Phil  and  his  sister , 
but  Grousemoor,  who  is  not  averse  to  another  conserva- 
tive vote  in  the  House  of  Lords,  fights  down  his  smile, 
and,  biting  his  lip,  says  :  "  I  agree  with  you  in  condemn- 
ing the  liberal  Irish  policy,  which  I  and  a  good  many 
other  Englishmen  believe  means  little  less  than  the  dis- 
memberment of  the  British  Empire.  I'm  glad  your  vote'll 
be  for  union,  that  makes  the  strength  of  any  govern- 
ment." With  this  he  turns  the  conversation  to  other 
topics,  for  he  imagines  that  a  discussion  on  English 
politics  with  this  new-made  peer  will  neither  be  edifying 
nor  educational. 

A  moment  after  Gussie,  who  has  come  down  more  for 
this  purpose  than  for  anything  else,  blurts  out :  "  Can 
you  tell  me,  Lord  Grousemoor,  if  I  will  take  precedence 
of  Avonmere  ?  We're  both  barons,  yer  see,  and  I  wouldn't 
like  him  to  get  the  best  of  me  at  a  dinner-party,  if  I  can 
help  it.  I'm  a  stickler  for  my  rights,  yer  know." 

This  produces  a  laugh  from  Miss  Bessie,  who  cries : 
"  Oh  for  a  peerage  !  Bring  me  a  Burke,  Lord  Bassing- 
ton  ;  I'll  help  you  protect  your  ancestral  rights. " 

"  Will  you  ?  "  says  Gussie,  gratefully.  "  I've  got  one 
here,"  and  he  produces  the  volume  he  has  carried  with 
him  from  Brentano's,  into  which  the  girl  dives  with  a 
mischievous  alacrity. 

A  moment  after  she  petrifies  Augustus,  for  she  says 
very  gravely  :  "  Why,  I — I  can't  find  your  name  in  the 
volume  !  " 

"  Not  find  it  in  Burke  ?  Why,  I've  seen  it  there  fifty 
times  myself  to-day  ! "  cries  the  young  man,  an  awful 
horror  in  his  voice. 

"  It  must  be  there,  Bessie,"  says  Grousemoor.  **  Baft» 
sington  is  one  of  the  oldest  of  English  baroniet." 

"  Oh,  Bassington  1 "  cries  the  girl  u  Of  course.  How 
foolish  I  I  was  looking  for  Van  Beekman  !  "  and  gesei 


158  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

into  such  a  spasm  of  mirth  that  the  new  creation  glares 
at  her,  a  malicious  gleam  in  his  watery  eyes. 

A  moment  after  she  says,  consulting  the  book  :  "  You 
go  into  dinner  behind  him.  Unfortunately,  Lord  Avon- 
mere  is  an  Edward  the  Third  and  number  377,  and  you're 
a  Richard  the  Second,  number  401." 

"  Well,  I  won't  be  behind  him  long.  I'm  going  over 
to  England  shortly,  and  I'll  get  Salisbury  to  revive  the 
Marquisate  of  Harrowby  ;  it's  mine  anyway,  by  rights  !  " 
mutters  Gussie,  petulantly. 

At  this  Grousemoor  opens  his  eyes  and  looks  at  the 
young  man  wonderingly.  "  Such  a  thing  is  sometimes  done 
for  a  great  political  service,"  he  remarks, "  but  not  often." 

''And  ain't  I  going  to  give  Salisbury  one,"  returns  the 
American  lord.  "  Just  you  wait  till  I  take  my  seat  in 
the  House  of  Peers,  and  I'll  floor  that  low-down  leveller 
Gladstone  in  a  way  that'll  make  little  Churchill  open  his 
eyes. — You've  heard  me,  Phil,  at  old  Yale  in  the  Skull 
and  Bones  ?  " 

Neither  Everett  nor  his  sister  answers  this  effusion  ; 
they  think  Gussie  must  have  been  celebrating  his  good 
fortune  in  champagne  before  his  visit ;  but  Grousemoor 
with  an  ill-concealed  sneer  says,  "  You'll  never  win  your 
marquisate  by  defeating  Mr.  Gladstone  in  debate." 

"Well,  I'll  have  a  try  at  him,  anyway,"  rejoins  little 
Gussie.  "  And  I've  just  given  orders  to  evict  his  cronies, 
my  Irish  tenants.  But  I  must  be  moving  ;  I'm  going  to 
razzle-dazzle  the  boys  at  the  Stuyvesant  with  my  great 
lightning  change  act  from  Gussie  Van  Beekman  to  Baron 
Bassington.  Awfully  pleased  to  have  met  you  again, 
Lord  Grousemoor.  Men  of  our  rank  are  so  isolated  in 
America."  And  he  bows  himself  to  the  door,  leaving 
them  all  astonished  and  somewhat  horrified  at  the  easy 
tone  of  his  eviction  remarks. 

As  the  door  closes  after  him,  Grousemoor  says  a  little 
sadly,  "  There's  another  cad  for  our  order  to  shoulder. 
It's  bad  enough  for  such  men  as  Avonmere  to  come  over 
from  London  slums  and  concert-halls  to  disgrace  our 
class ;  but,  by  Jove  !  to  have  the  British  peerage  recruited 
by  an  American  dude,  seems  hard  indeed  !  " 

"Then  you  think  there's  no  doubt  about  his  title," 
isks  Phil. 

"  Very  little,  I'm  afraid,"  answers  his  lordship,     w  Th« 


MIS9   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE.  I£f 

American  firm  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co.,  I  naturally  know 
nothing  of,  but  Brown,  Studley  &  Wilberforce  are  my 
London  solicitors  ;  and  if  they  cabled  him  a  thousand 
pounds  as  you  say  they  did,  and  authorized  him  to  draw 
on  them  for  ten  thousand  as  he  says  they  did,  he's  just 
as  good  as  in  possession  of  Harrowby  Castle." 

"  I  presume  this  will  please  the  Western  heiress  that 
rumor  says  he's  going  to  marry,"  remarks  Miss  Bes- 
sie, coming,  like  most  women,  to  the  matrimonial  aspect 
of  the  affair.  , 

"  Of  what  heiress  are  you  speaking  ?  "  asks  Phil,  who  is 
a  man  of  business  rather  than  society. 

"  Why,  haven't  you  heard  of  her  ?  Miss  Matilde  Fol- 
Hs — the  beautiful  Miss  Tillie  Follis  of  Colorado  ? "  says 
Bessie,  opening  her  eyes. 

"  I  have  heard  of  Miss  Tillie  Follis  of  New  Mexico," 
returns  Phil  with  a  grin.  "  I  believe  I've  got  blisters  on 
my  hands  yet  from  pounding  a  drill  in  a  mine  named 
after  her.  But  Miss  Tillie  Foliis  of  New  Mexico  was  not 
a  beauty." 

"  Well,  this  Miss  Tillie  Follis  of  Colorado  is — perfectly 
beautiful — she  was  the  belle  of  Mrs.  Bradford  Morton's 
ball.  But  you  never  go  anywhere  in  society ;  you  do 
not  care  for  young  ladies  nor  balls  ;  you  only  enjoy  bank 
directors'  company  and  stockholders'  meetings.  A  mis- 
anthrope at  thirty-two  !  "  cries  Bessie,  playfully  shaking  a 
warning  head. 

"  I  imagine  you  have  made  a  mistake,  Bessie,"  says 
Grousemoor.  "  The  rumor  I  heard  was  that  the  Follis's 
millions  were  to  reestablish  the  credit  of  Arthur,  Lord 
Avonmere." 

"  That's  where  you're  wrong,  Grousemoor.  I  had  il 
'•}•  :>m  an  authority  in  the  disposal  of  American  heiresses, 
Mrs.  Marvin.  Avonmere  loves  Matilde,  but  Van  Beck- 
.nan's  charms  were  too  potent.  But  if  I  am  to  have  any 
dinner  this  evening,  I  must  dress  for  it,"  and  she  rustles 
away,  leaving  the  two  gentlemen  together. 

"  Well,  bad  as  he  is,  I  believe  little  Gussie  is  the  better 
of  the  two.  Avonmere's  such  a  cold-blooded  scoundrel," 
murmurs  Bessie's  lover. 

"  You're  not  very  light  upon  the  peccadillos  of  youl 
brother  peer,"  returns  Phi1  who  has  only  heard  of  Avon 
mere  incidentally. 


l6o  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  because  he  is  one  of  my  clas«  that  I  ara 
»o  severe  on  his  peccadillos,  as  you  call  them,  though 
Avonmere's  have  been  sometimes  what  I  term  crimes," 
replies  Grousemoor,  who  is  a  nobleman  of  the  old  school, 
and  looks  upon  his  title  as  a  sacred  thing,  to  be  protected 
and  upheld,  pure  and  immaculate,  not  only  from  the  out- 
side world  but  from  his  own  feeblenesses  and  passions, 
and  regards  a  faux  pas  in  one  of  his  order  as  a  greater  sin 
than  it  would  be  in  mortals  of  more  common  clay. 
"  Avonmere  drags  his  title  in  the  dust.  It's  the  blood  of 
an  Italian  mother  that  does  it !  "  he  goes  on,  with  true 
British  prejudice.  "He  had  an  elder  brother,  Tom, 
who  was  all  English — a  captain  in  the  Fourth  Hussars, 
and  as  fine  a  gentleman  as  a  man  would  want  to  meet." 

"Then  how  is  it  Tom  has  not  the  title  ?  "  asks  Phil. 

"  Tom  Willoughby  is  dead  ! "  returns  Grousemoor. 
"  He  had  a  cattle  ranch  in  New  Mexico,  somewhere  neal 
the  place  to  which  my  carelessness  in  not  paying  my 
note  banished  you.  Captain  Tom  Willoughby  and  his 
lovely  wife  and  daughter  were  killed  by  Indians " 

"  Not  the  daughter  !  "  interrupts  Phil,  suddenly. 

"  Certainly  the  daughter,  or  how  could  Avonmere  get 
the  title  ?  It's  a  barony  by  writ,  and  descends  to  females. 
You  see  his  brother  Tom  was  Lord  Avonmere  for  four 
days,  though  he  didn't  know  it.  As  I  understand,  he  was 
killed  before  his  daughter ;  the  poor  little  child  was  a 
peeress  of  England  when  the  Apaches  or  Utes,  or  what- 
ever the  cursed  Indians  were,  took  her  young  life." 

To  this  Phil  says  nothing,  being  in  a  very  disturbed 
meditation. 

"  You  look  troubled,  Everett,"  continues  his  lordship  ; 
'nothing  about  those  Atchison,  Topeka  and  Santa  F6 
bonds  ?  "  for  the  two  gentlemen  have  been  caught  to  a 
slight  extent  in  the  financial  misfortunes  of  that  great 
railroad  whose  appetite  was  too  big  for  its  digestion.  It 
is  the  reorganization  of  this  company  that  has  brought 
Phil  to  New  York,  he  having  a  seat  in  the  board  of  direct 
ors  of  the  consolidated  and  rejuvenated  properties  of 
this  great  trunk  line. 

"  No,"  mutters  Everett,  slowly.  "  It  is  not  that,  but 
I've  been  unfaithful  to  a  dying  man's  trust." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asks  his  lordship,  astonished 

*  /  mean  to  do  my  duty  !  n  says  Phil,  very  solemnly. 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  l6f 

*  Can  I  help  you,  old  fellow  ? "  suggests  Grousemoor. 
noting  from  his  companion's  voice  that  the  affair  is  serious. 

"  Not  now ;  but  you  are  quite  sure  that  Avonmere's 
surname  is  Arthur  ?  " 

"  Certainly  !  " 

•'  Then,  in  a  few  days  you  may  help  me  very  much." 

"  Call  on  me  at  any  time,"  says  his  lordship  ;  and,  noti- 
cing that  his  friend  is  greatly  agitated,  he  goes  off  to  his 
room,  wondering  what  is  the  matter  with  Phil,  who  is 
pacing  the  floor  in  a  nervous,  excited,  and  tremulous 
manner. 

As  soon  as  he  is  alone  the  ex-cowboy  mutters  to  him- 
self, "  Killed  by  Indians — little  Flossie  Willoughby  ? 
Not  by  these  scars  !  "  and  puts  his  hands  to  his  face,  that 
still  bears  the  signs  of  Apache  handiwork.  A  moment 
later,  for  he  wishes  to  be  very  sure,  he  strides  to  his  sis- 
ter's room  and  knocks  upon  her  portal. 

"  You  can't  come  in,  Phil,  I'm  dressing  for  dinner," 
cries  that  young  lady  from  behind  her  door.  "  What  do 
you  want  ?  " 

"  You  remember  a  little  girl  you  met  at  Lordsburgh, 
when  mother  and  you  found  me  wounded  and  delirious?" 

"  Of  course  !  Little  Flossie  Willoughby.  Her  father 
and  mother  had  been  killed.  You  saved  her  !  "  comes 
Miss  Bessie's  voice  firm  and  strong  through  the  oak 
panels. 

"  Mother  and  you  did  not  conceal  her  being  killed 
from  me  because  you  feared  the  news  might  injure  me 
on  my  recovery  from  the  fever  ?  " 

"Of  course  not!  How  did  that  idea  get  into  your 
head?" 

"  The  child  was  well  when  you  saw  her  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  as  well  as  I  am  now.  She  came  into  our 
car  several  times  to  look  at  you  as  you  raved  that  day, 
between  Lordsburgh  and  Pueblo,  and  kissed  you  and 
called  you  her  dear  Mr.  Peter  so  many  times  that  I  got 
quite  jealous.  What's  the  matter,  you're  not  ill,  Phil  ?  " 
for  a  short  quick  gasp  comes  to  her  through  the  panel. 

"  No,  I  am  quite  well,"  he  says,  the  words  coming 
rather  slowly.  "  Can  you  remember  any  particulars  of 
the  child  during  the  journey?  You  know  I  was  delirious 
for  months  after,  and  don't  recollect  half  what  hap* 
pened." 

it 


|6«  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERfc. 

"  Yes,"  says  the  girl,  "  you  don't  remember  your  great 
scene  at  the  inquest,  when  you  grabbed  the  child  out  of 
her  uncle's  arms,  and  gave  a  melodramatic,  '  Not  to  him  ! 
Not  to  HIM  ! '  What's  got  into  your  head  to  come  and 
ask  me  such  questions  while  I'm  dressing.  My  maid  is 
jabbering  French  maledictions  at  you  in  a  whisper,  iaid 
I'm  a  little  cold— O-o-ough  !  " 

But  the  last  of  this  is  lost  on  Everett ;  his  mind  has 
gone  back  to  New  Mexico.  After  he  had  recovered  from 
his  wounds  his  mother  never  mentioned  to  him  what  he 
had  done  at  the  inquest,  fearing  it  might  again  unsettle 
him,  and  judging  it  to  have  been  some  delirious  raving 
of  the  fever.  So  the  matter  had  passed  out  of  sight ;  but 
now  his  sister's  words  bring  back  full  recollection  to  his 
mind. 

He  mutters,  "  I  saved  her  from  the  Apaches  to  give 
her  up  to  a  man  with  a  brain  of  a  Machiavelli  and  the 
heart  of  one  of  those  brutes— out  there  !  "  and  quoting 
poor  Tom  Willoughby's  words,  imitates  poor  Tom  Wil- 
loughby's  gesture. 

Then  he  walks  up  to  his  room  and  overhauls  a  package 
of  papers. 

The  first  of  these  is  a  letter  which  reads  as  follows  : 

PULLMAN,  ILLINOIS,  December  15,  1889. 

PHILIP  E.  T.  EVERETT,  Esq., 
Director 

Atchison,  Topeka  &  Santa  Frf 
Railroad, 

Boston,  Mass. 
Dear  Sir : 

Some  three  months  ago,  in  repairing  car  No.  427,  which  required 
radical  alterations,  a  sealed  packet  with  your  name  on  it  was  found 
by  one  of  the  workmen  employed. 

From  the  dust  with  which  it  was  covered,  and  the  position  in  which 
it  was  discovered,  it  has  probably  been  in  the  car  for  several  years, 
ha /ing  been  forced  under  one  of  the  heating  pipes  in  the  bottom  of 
the  stateroom. 

This  parcel  was,  as  usual  in  such  cases,  delivered  to  the  office 
for  the  return  of  lost  articles  ;  but  not  being  called  for,  and  I  noting 
your  name  upon  the  newly  elected  list  of  Atchison,  Topeka  &  Santa 
Fe  directors,  I  imagine  it  probably  belongs  to  you,  as  car  427  ran 
over  that  line  for  several  years  ;  consequently  forward  to  you  the 
packet. 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  163 

Please  acknowledge  receipt  of  same  in  case  it  is  your  property!  and 

oblige, 

Yours  most  respectfully, 

GKORGE  LANGDON, 

Assistant  Foreman. 

This  letter,  together  with  a  package  bearing  his  name 
in  his  mother's  handwriting,  had  been  forwarded  to 
Everett  from  Boston  some  few  days  before  ;  but  knowing 
that  the  contents  of  the  envelope  were  the  missing  letters 
of  Tom  Willoughby,  and  the  matter  being  of  such  distant 
date  that  it  could  hardly  be  of  importance  to  any  one  now, 
Phil  had  neglected  to  open  the  package. 

He  does  so  no  longer,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  cor- 
respondence of  the  dead  Englishman,  slightly  yellow 
from  age  and  stained  here  and  there  with  Phil's  own 
blood,  lies  in  front  of  him. 

He  looks  hurriedly  through  the  letters,  which  are  not 
numerous,  and  are  all  from  Mrs.  Willoughby  to  her 
husband.  They  are  chiefly  on  domestic  matters,  most 
of  them  being  filled  with  descriptions,  praise,  and  love  of 
their  little  girl  Flossie,  who  is  just  arriving  at  that  age  so 
interesting  to  mothers,  when  a  child  shows  the  first  graces 
of  budding  maidenhod. 

These  throw  no  light  whatsoever  upon  the  subject  he  is 
investigating ;  neither  do  the  photographs  of  the  child 
and  her  mother ;  though  with  tears  in  his  eyes  he  kisses 
that  of  the  beautiful  little  girl,  and  sighs  as  he  looks  on 
Agnes  Willoughby  and  thinks  of  her  cruel  death.  But  a 
closed  envelope  bearing  these  curiously  prophetic  words  : 

"  TO   MY   EXECUTORS  IN    CASE   I   DIE   BY   APPARENT 
ACCIDENT," 

signed  "  Thomas  Willoughby,"  seems  more  promising. 

Under  the  circumstances  any  scruple  that  might  make 
him  hesitate  to  read  this  document  would  be  childish. 
Phil  tears  open  the  envelope,  and  the  following  curious 
epistle  meets  his  eye  : 

WILLOUOHBV'*  RANCH,  N»w  MEXICO, 

February  21,  1881. 

News  has  Just  arrived  from  England  that  causes  me  to  write  this, 
for  a  new  danger  has  come  upon  me. 


164  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

By  the  death  of  my  cousin  in  Cairo,  Egypt,  from  cholera  or  scow 
Eastern  fever,  I  am  the  heir  presumptive  to  the  estates  and  title  of 
the  Barony  of  Avonmere. 

And  in  case  of  my  death  by  accident,  additional  danger  might 
come  upon  my  daughter  Florence.  It  is  as  a  warning  and  protec- 
tion to  her,  and  not  from  any  wish  of  vengeance  upon  my  brother 
Arthur,  that  I  make  this  statement. 

The  belief  that  I  will  fall  from  some  accident,  in  which  the  ap- 
parent hand  of  God  can  only  be  seen,  but  which  shall  really  be 
directed  by  the  hand  of  my  brother,  has  been  forced  upon  me  by  the 
following  extraordinary  incidents  of  my  life  : 

FIRST.— In  Colombo,  Ceylon,  when  a  portion  of  my  regiment  was 
stationed  in  barracks  at  that  place,  a  Hindoo  snake-charmer  one  day 
exhibited  his  art  upon  several  cobras,  permitting  some  of  them  to 
bite  him.  To  one  of  these  writhing  brutes  he  did  not  allow  that 
privilege,  handling  it  with  much  more  circumspection  and  care  than 
he  did  the  others. 

During  his  exhibition  that  snake  escaped,  and  he  did  not  succeed 
in  recapturing  it — I  think  chiefly  on  account  of  his  dread  of  the 
serpent's  fangs,  for  these  mountebanks  have  a  habit  of  extracting 
the  poisonous  teeth  of  the  reptiles  they  play  with,  dreading  them  as 
much  as  any  of  their  spectators. 

Two  days  after  this,  tiffin  being  over,  some  of  the  mess  were  en- 
joying their  cheroots  on  the  veranda  facing  the  garden  in  which  the 
cobra  had  disappeared.  Arthur,  who  was  a  government  clerk  in  the 
East  India  service  at  that  time,  though  only  nineteen  years  of  age, 
was  seated  among  us. 

He  had  been  walking  about  the  grounds  smoking  a  cigar  before 
he  joined  us.  A  little  time  after  he  turned  the  conversation  upon 
various  athletic  feats,  among  others  jumping. 

There  was  a  large  stump  of  a  tree  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden 
path. 

In  speaking  of  such  feats,  Arthur  offered  to  wager  that  no  one  in 
the  company  could  leap  the  tree  ;  something  any  one  of  us  could 
easily  accomplish. 

I  thought  him  a  foolish  fellow  to  lose  his  money  in  that  way,  but 
he  offered  to  bet  that  none  of  us  could  do  it,  aV  a  pound  a  head. 
This  was  immediately  accepted  by  all. 

In  arranging  the  order  of  the  jump,  which  was  to  be  a  running  ona, 
Arthur  suggested  that  we  go  by  seniority,  all  of  us  but  himself  being 
officers  in  the  army.  This  gave  me  the  first  leap. 

Father  laughing  at  the  idea  of  winning  a  pound  so  easily  from  mj 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  16$ 

younger  brother,  I  was  in  the  act  of  beginning  my  run  when  poo? 
young  Majoribanks,  crying,  "  Youth  before  beauty,"  ran  ahead  of  me 
and  sprang  over  the  tree. 

While  in  mid-air  we  heard  idm  give  an  awful  scream  of  terror,  and 
as  he  descended  on  the  other  side  another  and  more  horrible  cry 
came  from  his  lips.  He  staggered  back  and  sank  down  with  excla- 
mations  of  despair. 

Running  to  him  we  found  that  he  had  jumped  upon  the  cobra, 
which  was  lying  on  the  other  side  of  the  tree,  and  had  been  bitten. 
He  died  in  a  little  over  an  hour. 

SECOND. — Arthur  took  passage  for  me  in  a  ship  infected  by 
Asiatic  cholera,  bound  from  Ceylon  to  the  Straits  Settlements. 

Before  \ve  arrived  at  Penang,  two-thirds  the  passengers  and  half 
the  crew  had  been  thrown  overboard.  I  luckily  escaped,  perhaps 
through  having  been  acclimated  by  service  in  the  jungles  of  Bengal 
and  the  Malay  Peninsula. 

I  now  have  reason  to  believe  my  brother  knew  the  vessel  was 
infected  when  he  engaged  my  passage. 

THIRD. — On  the  yacht  Sylvic,  Arthur  left  us  at  nine  P.  M.  to  go 
on  shore  at  Ryde.  At  ten  only  God's  mercy  saved  us  being  run 
down  by  a  Channel  steamer.  Our  sailing  lights  had  been  reversed — 
Heaven  knows  by  whom,  but  I  suspect  by  my  brother ;  they  were 
certainly  right  before  he  left  us. 

FOURTH. — At  Shilton,  a  little  station  on  the  London  and  North- 
western Railway,  while  waiting  to  meet  my  wife  and  child,  Arthur 
stood  upon  what  looked  like  a  shunt,  and  I  beside  him.  After  talking 
to  me  a  moment  he  asked  me  to  wait  for  him  while  he  stepped  into 
the  station  house  to  get  a  light  for  his  cigar.  Ten  seconds  after- 
ward the  guard  ran  out  and  pulled  me  off  the  track  ;  in  five  seconds 
more  the  Liverpool  express  rushed  over  the  place  I  had  stood — it 
was  the  main  through  line. 

The  station  master  incidentally  mentioned  to  me  that  he  wondered 
my  brother  had  left  me  standing  in  such  a  spot,  as  he  knew  the  sta- 
tion very  well  and  had  spent  several  hours  there,  off  and  on,  watching 
the  trains  and  noting  their  times  of  passage.  "  He  saw  the  Liverpool 
express  run  over  that  line  yesterday  at  that  self-same  minute,"  the 
man  asserted. 

This  is  what  first  forced  me  to  suspect  my  brother,  and  furthei 
investigation  compelled  me  at  last  to  the  conviction  that  he  had  delib- 
erately placed  me  in  the  path  of  death  in  the  other  instances  men- 
tioned ;  notwithstanding  I  gave  him  the  benefit  of  every  doubt,  for  it  it 
bard  to  believe  that  one  you  love  would  be  morally  your  murderer 


166  MISS   NOBODY   OP    NOWHERE. 

I  expect  no  danger  from  direct  attack ;  but  If  I  survive  th»  pres. 
*at  Lord  Avonmer* — what  may  I  not  fear?  One  who  has  made 
•uch  efforti  when  he  had  only  a  pittance  to  gain,  will  be  more 
inventive  with  a  title  and  great  wealth  to  help  him  design  some 
new  accident,  some  fatal  mishap  for  the  brother  that  signs  this 

THOMAS  WILLOUGHBY. 

P.  S. — Inspect  any  accident  that  may  happen  to  me,  no  matter 
how  much  it  may  appear  the  hand  of  God — for  directing  it  will  be 
the  man  I  once  loved,  but  now  despise  and  dread,  my  half-brother 
Arthur  Willoughby,  whose  mother's  Italian  blood  must  have  had  in 
it  some  stream  from  the  Borgias.  T.  W. 

After  he  has  read  the  last  of  this  curious  document, 
Everett  does  some  of  the  hardest  thinking  of  his  life, 
sending  the  plea  of  business  as  an  excuse  for  missing  his 
dinner. 

At  dessert,  however,  he  makes  his  appearance  and 
rather  startles  his  sister,  for  his  eyes  have  a  look  in  them 
she  has  not  seen  since  the  fever  left  him,  nine  years 
before. 

His  words  astound  Miss  Bessie  still  more,  but  also 
relieve  her  mind.  He  says  rather  lightly,  "  I  think  a 
little  society  would  do  me  good ;  what  are  your  invita- 
tions for  this  evening  ?  " 

"  None  for  you,"  she  answers ;  "  according  to  your 
orders  I  have  refused  every  one  for  you  this  week  ;  but 
if  you  want  to  make  your  debut  in  the  social  world, 
there's  a  card  for  the  coming  Patriarchs,  and  an  invitation 
to  the  great  sensation  Mrs.  Warburton's  Private  Circus  a 
fortnight  afterward." 

"  A  private  circus !"  he  echoes,  astonished. 

*'  Yes — horses,  amateur  bareback  riders.  That  would 
be  the  place  for  you,"  cries  Miss  Bessie,  who  is  mightily 
glad  her  brother  will  cast  away  business  cares  and  take 
to  enjoying  himself.  "  Pete  and  his  lasso !  The  only 
original  broncho  act  by  a  real  cowboy !  That  would 
make  a  sensation,"  and  she  claps  her  hands ;  "  I'll  send 
your  name  in  to  the  ring-master.  We'll  bring  Possum 
down  from  the  farm,  and  you  shall  appear  on  his  back  in 
your  old  costume  of  the  prairie.  I've  got  it  up  in  the 
Beacon  Street  garret.  It's  lucky  you've  kept  up  your 
riding.  Hurrah  !  you'll  be  the  sensation  of  the  show  1  * 


MISS  NOBODY  OP   NOWHERE.  167 

After  a  moment,  this  proposition  not  being  responded 
to  enthusiastically,  she  quiets  down  and  suggests  :  "  As 
you're  barred  from  private  entertainments  by  your  own 
act,  why  not  come  to  a  public  one  ?  This  evening, 
Grousemoor  and  I,  chaperoned  by  Mrs.  Livingston  Willis, 
are  going  to  the  opera  for  an  hour  or  two — join  us 
There'll  be  plenty  of  people  to  look  at  and  talk  to  if  you 
don't  care  for  Wagner." 

"  Thank  you  very  much — I  will,"  says  her  brother, 
and  stalks  away  to  his  room  to  make  his  preparations, 
muttering  with  threatening  tone  :  "  Perhaps  fit  see  him 
there!" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

LITTLE  GUSSIE'S   RAZZLE   DAZZLE. 

THE  Metropolitan  Opera  House  that  evening  presents 
its  usual  brilliant  scene  ;  the  boxes  filled  with  the  usual 
fashionable  crowd,  who  come  only  for  love  of  society ; 
the  orchestra  occupied  by  people  who  come  for  love  of 
music  and  nothing  else.  But  no  one  of  all  the  throng 
is  attracted  by  a  motive  like  unto  that  of  Philip  Everett. 

He  enters  a  little  late  and  sits  abstractedly  behind  Mrs. 
Willis's  pretty  white  shoulders,  giving  out  so  little  con- 
versation that  this  fashionable  young  matron  turns  to 
him  and  remarks,  with  one  of  those  charming  petite  pouts 
of  which  she  makes  a  specialty  :  "  Mr.  Everett,  she  has 
not  come  yet  ?" 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  "  says  Phil,  with  a  start. 

"  Why,  the  lady  you  are  looking  for,  of  course.  The 
people  down  there  " — she  points  with  her  fan  to  the  or- 
chestra — "  are  listening  ;  the  people  up  here  " — she  indi- 
cates the  circle  of  boxes — "are  talking  ;  you  do  neither: 
you  simply  look.  Let  me  know  when  you  see  her." 

"  It's  not  a  lady  I'm  seeking,"  remarks  Phil,  quietly. 
Then  he  suddenly  says  :  "  Who  is  that  just  coming  into 
the  box  opposite  to  us  ? " 

"Oh,  that's  the  beautiful  Mlsi  Follli  of  Colorado," 
answers  Mrs.  Willis.  "  If  she's  the  lady  you're  in  search 
ot  I'm  sorry  for  you  ;  she's  already  spoken  for  by  little 


|68  MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE. 

Gnssie  Van  Beekman,  who  I  hear  has  just  been  discov- 
ered to  be  an  English  lord,  and  I  don't  think  an  Ameri- 
can gentleman  would  have  much  chance  with  a  Western 
heiress  in  comparison  to  a  full-fledged  peer  of  the  Brit- 
ish realm."  Mrs.  Willis's  loge  is  a  parterre  one,  almost 
facing  that  which  Mr.  Follis  has  engaged  for  the  use  of 
his  family  during  the  season. 

Into  this  box  Miss  Matilde  is  coming,  in  all  the  glory 
of  a  fresh  new  imported  dress  and  flashing  jewels.  She 
is  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Marvin,  her  mother  not  caring 
for  Wagner's  music,  which  she  says  reminds  her  of 
the  wash-house  strains  of  John  Chinaman.  Curiously 
enough,  no  gentleman  appears  in  their  party.  They 
lake  their  seats,  and  after  distributing  a  few  bows  to  neai 
by  acquaintances  in  other  boxes,  elevate  their  opera- 
glasses  and  proceed  to  take  a  survey  of  the  house. 

"There's  the  beautiful  Miss  Follis  that  I  told  you 
about,"  whispers  Bessie,  leaning  over  to  her  brother  and 
calling  his  attention  with  her  fan. 

"  Humph  ! "  replies  Phil ;  then  he  remarks  suddenly : 
"By  George!  she  does  look  like  Tiliie  Follis  of  New 
Mexico,  grown  up,  after  all — lend  me  your  glass ! " 
Through  a  powerful  lorgnette  he  views  the  beauty  of 
Matilde.  And  this  evening  she  is  more  beautiful  than 
ever,  for  the  news  of  Van  Beekman's  elevation  to  the  peer- 
age has  been  brought  to  her  this  afternoon  by  Mrs.  Mar- 
vin, and  Gussie's  good  fortune  the  girl  proudly  considers 
her  own,  and  imagines  she  will  be  an  English  peeress 
after  all,  and  has  said  "  Lady  Bassington "  to  herself 
almost  as  often  as  her  fiancJ  has  done  himself  a  similar 
honor  this  day. 

There  has  been  a  great  buzz  all  the  evening,  the  boxes 
having  had  something  more  exciting  than  the  usual  lan- 
guid society  news  to  gossip  about,  for  the  sudden  eleva- 
tion of  Augustus  Van  Beekman,  who  has  been  on  the 
verge  of  ostracism  by  the  more  exclusive  clique  for  the 
past  year  or  two,  has  given  them  an  absorbing  sensa- 
tion ;  and  as  they  think  the  matter  over  they  are  very 
glad  they  have  not  done  it. 

They  had  half  forgiven  him  when  he  became  engaged 
to  a  great  heiress ;  now  they  are  wholly  reconciled  to  his 
eccentricities,  and  are  hastily  preparing  themselves  to 
get  upon  their  haughty  knees  and  bow  their  aristocratic 


MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  169 

heads  to  this  little  Manhattan  Island  dandy  whom  for- 
tune  has  at  last  kicked  into  the  English  House  of  Lords. 

Curiously  enough  there  are  few  doubters  as  to  the 
truth  of  the  news,  though  every  one  has  heard  it. 

Little  Gussie,  on  his  arrival  at  the  Stuyvesant,  had  not 
waited  long  to  tell  his  story  and  to  impress  it  on  his  hear- 
ers, stating  that  he  had  been  cabled  to  draw  at  sight  upon 
Brown,  Studley  &  Wilberforce  for  ^20,000,  and  lavishing 
his  money  to  prove  that  his  draft  had  been  honored. 

He  has  certainly  got  the  estates,  and,  of  course,  the 
title.  A  few  minutes  later,  Avonmore  lounges  into  the 
club,  and  his  manner  confirms  Gussie 's  news. 

He  strides  up  to  the  little  aristocrat  and  says :  "  Bas- 
sington,  I've  just  heard  of  your  being  confirmed  in  your 
title.  I  had  a  hint  that  you  were  the  coming  baron  from 
my  London  solicitors,  Brown,  Studley  &  Wilberforce,  and 
now  the  news  is  confirmed.  My  congratulations,  old 
man — Harrowby  Castle's  the  prettiest  place  in  Kent.  I 
hope  you'll  ask  me  down  when  you  take  possession." 

"  Won't  I,  old  boy  ?  "  cries  Gussie,  who  thinks  he'll  die 
with  joy.  "  I've  just  come  from  Grousemoor ;  he  sent  for 
me  to  ask  my  vote  for  the  Conservative  party  when  I  take 
my  seat." 

"  The  devil  he  did  !  "  mutters  Avonmere,  rather  aston- 
ished ;  though  he  is  delighted  that  this  proud  Scottish 
peer  had  furthered  his  plans. 

So  the  two  go  off  together  to  dinner,  for  Gussie  says  : 
"You  dine  with  me  to-day — you  must,  Avonmere — by 
Jove  !  you  wouldn't  have  me  sit  down  with  a  com- 
moner on  such  a  day  as  this  ?  " 

Now,  this  occurrence  being  carried  home  by  every 
married  club-man  to  his  wife,  soon  got  to  the  ears  ol 
nearly  all  other  ladies,  and  those  who  had  not  known 
it  before  they  arrived  at  the  Metropolitan  were  very 
shortly  acquainted  with  the  facts  of  the  case  by  the 
various  visiting  young  men,  who  were  delighted  to  have 
something  astounding  to  whisper  into  the  ears  of 
beauty  when  they  lounged  into  her  box. 

This  news  causes  the  appearance  of  Miss  Follis  to 
make  quite  a  sensation ;  those  who  know  her  pointing 
her  out  to  those  who  do  not  as  the  young  lady  who 
is  engaged  to  marry  the  lucky  little  Gussie,  the  new- 
made  British  peer,  with  fifty  or  sixty  thousand  pounds  a 


I7»  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

year  ;  for  this  Bassington  fortune  is  growing  as  tran* 
ferred  from  mouth  to  mouth. 

Eyes  that  have  been  cold  to  her  under  this  benign 
influence  grow  warm,  and  Matilde  Follis,  as  she  sits  in 
her  box,  with  the  music  of  "  Tristan  and  Isolde  "  floating 
in  the  air  about  her,  feels  something  more  inspiring  than 
Wagner  in  the  bright,  congratulatory  nods  and  wafted 
salutations  that  concentrate  upon  her  pretty  face,  though 
Herr  Seidl  and  his  orchestra  are  fiddling  their  arms  away 
and  blowing  their  lungs  away  quite  stoutly,  as  all  Wag- 
nerian  orchestras  should  do. 

But  if  a  buzz  goes  up  on  Matilde's  arrival,  a  regular 
hurr.  invades  the  air  to  Mr.  Gussie's  grand  entrance  as 
Lord  Bassington.  The  vocal  accompaniment  from  the 
boxes  drowns  the  orchestra,  and  several  German  gentle- 
men in  the  body  of  the  house,  who  have  come  this  even- 
ing under  the  mistaken  notion  that  they  will  hear  an 
opera,  express  their  displeasure  by  a  vigorous  hissing 
from  the  seats  below  ;  but  they  might  as  well  appeal  to 
the  murmuring  waves  to  stop  murmuring  as  to  expect 
the  wagging  tongues  of  women  to  stop  wagging  when 
this  new  star  of  rank  and  fashion  first  comes  under  their 
eager  opera-glasses. 

"  I  see  him  !  He's  there  ! — centre  entrance  to  the 
orchestra  ! — looking  about  for  the  box  he'll  first  honor  •  " 
cries  Miss  Alice  Morton  Budd,  the  most  innocent  ingenue 
of  the  season. 

"  By  George  !  "  whispers  the  envious  Grayson,  who  is 
sitting  behind  this  floweret  of  fashionable  life,  "you 
women  ought  to  call  Bassington  in  front  of  the  curtain 
and  cheer  him  as  our  Teuton  friends  used  to  do  their  pet 
tenor  Alvary  ! " 

"  You  forget  Alvary  often  led  his  prima  donna  out 
with  him  ;  perhaps  Bassington  might  bring  his,  and  I 
shouldn't  applaud  her.  She  looks  as  haughty  as  if  she 
had  the  coronet  on  her  head  already,"  returns  Miss  Budd, 
gazing  across  at  the  Follis  box,  the  loge  she  is  occupy- 
ing  being  next  to  that  of  Mrs.  Willis  and  her  party. 

Miss  Budd  goes  prattling  on  in  this  strain  for  a  few 
moments  when  Grayson  suddenly  whispers  :  "  Hush  ! 
he's  coming  in  next  door.  See  the  fair  Tillie  looks 
astonished  and  piqued  because  my  lord  didn't  give  her 
bis  first  greeting.  His  English  lordship  will  get  an 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE,  Ifl 

American  talking  to  when  he  puts  in  an  appearance  over 
there.  La  Follis's  eyes  are  blazing  more  than  her  dia- 
monds,"  and  Mr.  Grayson  turns  his  lorgnette  upon  Mrs. 
Marvin's  prottgtc. 

A  moment  after  he  says  suddenly,  and  perhaps  disap- 
pointedly, "  George  !  did  you  hear  that  ?  Grousemoor 
has  given  him  his  title  as  if  he'd  already  taken  his  seat 
in  the  House  of  Lords.  It's  a  sure  go  !  Excuse  me  a 
moment,  Miss  Alice,"  and  bolts  off  to  other  boxes  to  tell 
them  that  Grousemoor  has  publicly  recognized  Gussie 
Van  Beekman  as  Lord  Bassington. 

This  has  come  about  in  this  way. 

Avonmere  and  Augustus  have  taken  dinner  at  an  up- 
town restaurant  in  a  private  room,  little  Gussie  clamor- 
ing for  Delmonico's,  where  he  can  make  a  display  of 
himself  and  his  luck  ;  Avonmere  over-ruling  this,  fearing 
the  all-seeing  reporter,  who  he  knows  is  even  now  tramp- 
ing Fifth  Avenue,  looking  in  at  all  likely  restaurants  and 
clubs,  and  will  shortly  drop  in  to  the  opera  in  pursuit  of 
Baron  Bassington  and  his  Aladdin  tale  for  the  morning 
papers.  At  dinner  Avonmere  has  suggested  the  opera, 
wishing  to  force  little  Gussie  close  to  Miss  Follis,  so  that 
he  may  have  every  chance  to  slight  hisfancee,  shrewdly 
guessing  the  nearer  they  are  brought  together,  the  more 
the  American  lord  will  give  the  cold  shoulder  to  the 
American  heiress. 

For  Augustus  has  become  very  chatty  over  his  wine, 
and  has  told  Avonmere  of  his  contemplated  evictions  on 
his  Irish  estates  in  a  manner  that  makes  his  hearer  writhe 
on  his  chair  with  suppressed  laughter ;  and  a  moment 
after  has  asked  Avonmere's  advice  on  this  very  subject. 

"  It's  rather  a  delicate  matter,  my  boy,"  he  has  said  ; 
"but  I  know  you'll  give  your  opinion  to  a  brother  peer. 
What  am  I  to  do  now  in  that  unfortunate  complication 
with  little  Follis?" 

"  I  had  supposed  you  were  going  to  marry  ner,~  returns 
the  Englishman  with  a  smile. 

Here  Gussie  astounds  and  actually  overawes  him. 
His  little  frame  grows  taller,  his  air  grows  more  haughty, 
and  his  voice  becomes  very  severe  as  he  says,  "  I  am  sur- 
prised, Lord  Avonmere,  at  such  a  suggestion.  I  have 
not  forgotten  my  rank  if  Grousemoor  has  his.  I  had 
presumed  that  your  opinion  and  mine  coincided  upon 


17 1  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

this  question,  which  is  at  the  basis  of  our  rank.  Blua 
blood  for  blue  blood  !  Keep  the  canaille  away  t  Curse 
:em  ! "  For  vanity  and  champagne  have  by  this  time 
nearly  made  him  crazy. 

"  That  being  the  case,"  returns  Avonmere,  with  a 
choked-down  chuckle,  "  you  should  cut  the  young  lady's 
hopes  short  at  once!  It's  kinder.  Perhaps  even  now 
s  Le  is  dreaming  of  wearing  your  coronet." 

"  No  doubt  she  is,"  interrupts  Gussie  with  a  grin. 
'•  She's  been  dreaming  of  this  for  weeks.  Old  Marvin, 
who  has  a  nose  for  a  peer  like  a  pointer  for  a  quail, 
scented  me  out  long  ago  and  put  Matilde  up  to  the  game, 
and  so  she  took  me  at  advantage  and  literally  trapped 
me,  by  Jove  !  " 

"  It  does  look  a  little  curious,"  murmurs  Avonmere. 

"Curious?  I  should  think  so  !"  cries  Gussie.  "  I  shall 
cut  the  Follis  affair  in  a  way  that'll  make  Miss  Matilde 
open  her  eyes.  Watch  me  do  it  at  the  opera  to-night." 

So  the  two  take  cab  for  the  Metropolitan,  Avonmere 
suggesting  that  as  Grousemoor  has  recognized  his  title, 
it  would  be  no  more  than  polite  for  Gussie  to  drop  into 
his  box  and  pay  his  compliments  to  him,  shrewdly  imag- 
ining that  if  the  great  Scottish  nobleman  indorses  the 
claim  of  Augustus  to  the  Barony  of  Bassington,  New 
York  society  will  follow  his  lead  in  a  way  that  will  make 
the  new  young  peer  very  haughty  and  snobbish  to  com- 
mon clay  and  especially  so  to  Miss  Follis  of  Colorado. 

He  moreover  remarks  that  he  imagines  Lord  Bassing- 
ton may  be  persecuted  by  reporters  this  evening  and  ad- 
vises that  he  simply  tell  them  his  knowledge  of  his  rank 
and  draft  for  his  money  came  direct  from  Brown,  Studley 
&  Wilberforce  of  London.  "  I  wouldn't  mention  Stillman, 
Myth  &  Co.  in  the  matter,  or  that  firm  won't  be  able  to 
transact  business  to-morrow,  the  gentlemen  of  the  press 
will  persecute  them  so." 

"  That's  what  old  Stillman  said  himself,"  returns  Gus- 
sie, "  and  I've  concluded  to  take  pity  on  him  and  give  him 
a  rest."  Which  he  does  that  evening,  telling  all  inquir- 
ing reporters  that  if  they  want  further  particulars  they 
can  apply  to  his  London  solicitors,  Brown,  Studley  & 
Wilberforce — a  policy  that  insures  him  rank  and  title 
for  a  few  short  days ;  for  had  he  set  those  lynxes  of  the 
press  upon  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co.,  the  peerage  of  Ba* 


MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE.  IJ3 

•ington  would  have  passed  from  him  within  twenty-four 
hours. 

Dodging  such  reporters  as  he  can  in  the  lobby  of  the 
Metropolitan,  and  promising  interviews  later  in  the  even- 
ing to  those  that  get  their  hands  upon  him,  he  leaves 
Avonmere  and  soon  finds  himself  in  Mrs.  Willis's  box, 
where  there  is  a  little  throng  of  gentlemen. 

For  that  lady  is  quite  popular  herself,  and  Miss  Ever- 
ett's face  is  fresh  to  New  York  and  very  pretty  as  well , 
besides,  she  is  about  to  marry  the  great  gun  of  the  win- 
ter,  and  they  wish  to  keep  themselves  in  her  memory, 
hoping  for  invitations  to  the  Boston  wedding,  and  social 
recognition  from  her  as  the  Marchioness  of  Grousemoor 
upon  their  annual  trips  across  the  ocean  to  merry  Eng- 
land. 

Squeezing  his  way  among  these  and  getting  three 
hearty  grips  in  his  passage,  Mr.  Gussie  finds  himself  be- 
hind Miss  Bessie's  chair.  That  young  lady  holds  out  a 
welcoming  hand  to  him,  while  the  Scotch  peer  smiles 
and  says,  "  How  are  you  ?  Still  booked  to  uphold  our 
constitution  against  Gladstone  ? "  For  this  nobleman 
has  his  party's  welfare  very  much  at  heart,  and  is  deter- 
mined to  enlist  the  new  peer  and  give  him  the  Conser- 
vative shilling  at  once. 

"  Yaas,  count  on  me  ! "  murmurs  Augustus. 

Then  Mrs.  Willis  whispers  a  word  to  Grousemoor,  and 
that  gentleman  says,  "  Excuse  me,  I  did  not  know  you 
were  unacquainted — Mrs.  Willis,  Lord  Bassington,"and 
— the  trick  is  done  I 

Three  or  four  of  the  loungers  in  the  box  lounge  out 
of  it  and  into  others,  where  they  confirm  Gussie's  luck, 
stating  that  he  has  been  introduced,  under  his  title,  to 
Mrs.  Willis,  by  that  strict  upholder  of  social  etiquette 
and  class  distinction,  Grousemoor. 

After  this  comes  to  its  ears,  New  York  society  is  very 
kind  and  cordial  to  little  Gussie  to-night. 

This  news  finding  its  way  to  the  De  Punster  Van 
Beekman  box,  old  Van  Twiler  Van  Beekman,  who  has 
hardly  bowed  to  the  scapegrace  for  years — he  is  only  his 
first  cousin — ccmes  out  into  the  foyer  and  pounces  on 
Gussie  as  he  leaves  Mrs.  Willis's  party. 

"  You  young  rascal  f  "  cries  the  old  gentleman,  slap- 
ping him  on  the  back  with  playful  cordiality,  "what 


174  MIS3  NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  ?  We  haven't  seen 
you  for  months,  and  I  don't  believe  you  called  this  win- 
ter." 

"  Yaas,  been  rather  busy  with  my  Irish  tenants  lately," 
lisps  Gussie,  remembering  that  Van  Twiler  had  hardly 
nodded  to  him  as  he  passed  him  on  the  street  but  yester- 
day, and  his  last  call  at  his  old-fashioned  mansion  in 
Washington  Square  had  met  with  such  a  chilly  reception 
that  he  had  never  had  the  courage  to  ring  his  door-bell 
afterward. 

"  Come  into  our  box ;  Lydia  is  anxious  to  see  you  and 
give  you  your  new  title."  And  he  drags  Augustus  to 
the  ancient  Lydia,  who  makes  much  of  him  in  a  cousinly 
familiar  way  which  Gussie  brings  himself  to  endure,  as 
the  old  couple  have  lots  of  real  estate  and  no  direct  heir, 
and  fifty  thousand  pounds  a  year  is  none  too  much  for  a 
dashing  young  nobleman  to  spend  on  his  stable,  steam 
yacht,  and  attentions  to  the  fair  sex,  monde  and  demimonde, 

After  a  little  Gussie  gets  away  from  his  old  relations, 
being  anxious  for  more  juvenile  adulation.  He  is  fol- 
lowed, however,  by  the  venerable  Van  Twiler,  who,  taking 
him  aside  in  the  lobby,  whispers,  "Cousin  Bassington, 
we  look  to  you  to  lift  our  family  to  the  place  it  occupied 
in  old  Manhattan  days,  before  its  social  supremacy  was 
contested  by  more  recent  and  perhaps  larger  fortunes. 
I've  had  you  down  in  my  will  almost  since  you  were  born, 
and  I  hope  you  will  make  no  mistake  when  you  settle  in 
life.  I  heard  the  other  day  with  some  concern  that  you 
had  forgotten  your  blood  in  this  modern  craze,  after 
wealth.  I  hope  it  is  not  so." 

"  Awh — you  refer  to  that  Follis  gal,"  returns  Gussie, 
airily.  "  With  sixty  thousand  pounds  a  year  I  need  seek 
no  addition  to  my  fortune.  Lord  Bassington  will  be  very 
careful  of  himself  matrimonially." 

And  he  departs  upon  his  triumphal  tour,  dropping  in 
to  all  boxes  to  which  he  has  the  entree,  and  being  in- 
vited into  some  of  the  others  ;  saying  a  few  words  to  old 
friends,  and  making  a  good  many  new  ones.  Thus  to- 
night beauty,  wealth,  and  fashion  smile  Mpon  this  new- 
made  lord,  for  there  is  no  place  on  earth  where  an  English 
nobleman  is  so  great  a  nobleman  as  in  this  city  of  New 
York,  in  the  republic  of  these  United  States  of  America, 
among  a  certain  clique. 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  1 75 

But  in  all  his  peregrinations  of  the  evening,  he  avoids 
approach  to  that  loge  where  Mrs.  Marvin  sits  accom- 
panied by  his  sweetheart  and  fianetet  the  young  and 
charming  Western  heiress. 

Other  men  whisper  nothings  into  Miss  Follis's  pretty 
ears ;  other  men  sit  behind  her  gleaming  shoulders ; 
other  men  lounge  in  and  out  of  her  box  and  catch  the 
sweetness  of  her  voice,  that  is  gradually  growing  sad  and 
subdued,  or  seek  the  brightness  of  her  glance,  which  be- 
comes pathetic  as  the  evening  wears  away — but  never  the 
man  whose  betrothal  ring  she  wears,  Augustus,  Baron 
Bassington. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  evening  her  eyes  and  voice 
take  another  change  and  become  flashingly  cool  and 
stridently  haughty,  for  by  this  time  Matilde  Follis  knows 
she  is  under  a  hundred  opera-glasses  who  are  seaching 
every  motion  of  her  hands,  every  movement  of  her  lips, 
every  glance  of  her  eyes,  to  pry  into  her  heart  and  see 
how  she  bears  the  public  desertion  and  neglect  of  the 
man  who,  on  this  evening  if  on  no  other,  should  have 
halved  with  her  his  social  happiness  and  glory. 

So  this  young  girl,  who  has  not  been  trained  to  con- 
cealing her  heart,  and  who  has  been  used  to  little  but 
kindness,  endures  a  crucial  ordeal  and  social  martyrdom 
that  come  to  few  women — thank  Heaven  ! — in  this  life, 
and  does  it  bravely  and  successfully;  fighting  down  any 
tremor  in  her  voice,  subduing  any  nervous  play  of  coun- 
tenance that  may  betray  the  agony  of  an  insulted  self- 
esteem  and  crucified  pride. 

But  the  struggle  ages  her,  and  from  the  rise  of  the 
curtain  on  the  third  act  to  Isolde's  dying  song  seems  a 
lustrum  in  her  life. 

And  on  this  spectacle  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the 
parterre  boxes  gaze,  criticising  her  motions  and  noting 
how  she  bears  her  humiliation.  Some  with  little  giggles 
— these  are  mostly  unthinking  girls  ;  others  with  smiles — 
they  are  women  whose  hearts  have  been  destroyed  in 
social  battle ;  and  some — thank  Heaven  ! — with  just  rage 
and  righteous  indignation. 

"  Miss  Denver's  coronet  is  growing  pale,"  say*  Alice 
Budd,  with  a  malicious  smile. 

"By  George,  he's  just  been  in  the  boxes  on  each  Side 
M  hers.  After  greeting  the  Laurisons,  he  is  in  the  Ro* 


I?€  MISS  NOBODY   OF 

ingstons.  The  general  is  shaking  his  hand  oft.  Two 
unmarried  daughters,  you  know.  Isn't  Gussie  putting 
the  Follis  on  a  social  gridiron  ? "  replies  Mr.  Grayson. 

"  If  he  wishes  to  break  his  engagement  he  might  have 
done  it  afterward,  decently,"  remarks  Mrs.  Willis. 

"  How  bravely  she  suffers,"  whispers  Bessie  to  Gtouse- 
moor,  and  tears  come  into  the  girl's  eyes,  for  an  awful 
vision  comes  to  her  of  her  betrothed  placing  public  scorn 
upon  her. 

"The  cruel  little  snob !"  mutters  the  true  nobleman, 
with  a  smothered  curse,  for  which  hisjzantee  gives  him  an 
astonished  but  grateful  look.  "  If  you'll  excuse  me  for 
a  few  minutes,  I'll  leave  you  to  Phil's  care  and  step  ovef 
to  Miss  Follis's  box,"  he  adds.  "  I  know  her  well  enough 
to  take  the  liberty." 

M  Certainly  ! "  says  Bessie.  "  But  what  do  you  mean 
to  do  ? " 

"  I  mean  to  uphold  that  insulted  girl  in  the  only  way 
I  can — by  my  presence  at  her  side,"  he  answers  shortly. 
"  I  want  Miss  Follis  to  know  that  every  nobleman  is  not 
what  Bassington  is — a  cad ! "  and  he  departs  on  his 
errand,  pursued  by  a  pleased  glance  from  his  sweetheart. 

While  this  has  been  going  on,  Phil,  in  a  retired  ncok 
of  Mrs.  Willis's  box,  has  been  looking  for  the  man  he 
has  come  to  see,  in  vain. 

Taking  pity  on  his  loneliness,  his  hostess  from  time. 
to  time  has  leaned  back  and  chatted  with  him  on  the 
past  glories  of  opera  in  New  York,  telling  him  of  the 
days  when  the  Academy  resounded  with  the  plaudits  of 
united  Italy  in  its  upper  gallery,  when  Gerster  and  Patti 
and  Campanini  and  Ravelli  sang, 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  look  at  me  as  if  I  were  old  !  "  she 
•.nterjects,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  It  was  only  eight  years 
ago,  and  I  had  just  come  out  and  was  in  love  with  music, 
Italian  music,  and  thought  Campanini  the  most  enchant- 
ing of  tenors.  That  house  was  prettier  than  this.  Here 
we  women  in  our  evening  toilets  are  like  flowers  in  sepa- 
rate flower-pots  in  this  wall  of  boxes.  There  in  the  open 
gallery  loges  we  were  all  combined  in  one  big  glorious 
bouquet  each  night —  But  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

This  last  in  rather  a  startled  tone,  for  Phil  has  sud- 
denlv  muttered :  "  By  heavens,  it  is  he  ! "  and  has 
hastily  risen  froQi  3  Is  chair. 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  177 

•*  Nothing  !  "  he  replies,  seating  himself  again. 

"  Nothing  ?    Why,  your  eyes  are  blazing." 

"Are  they?  Wagner's  music  must  have  got  into 
them,  then,"  says  Phil,  laughing  slightly  and  forcing 
himself  to  calmness,  though  the  sight  of  a  gentleman  in 
evening  dress  has  made  him  see  again  the  telegraph  office 
at  Lordsburgh,  with  Arthur  Willoughby  whispering  in  his 
ear  the  lying  message  that  made  him  take  a  gentle  Eng- 
lish lady  to  her  death  just  up  the  valley  of  the  Gila. 
Then  he  goes  on  quite  suddenly  :  "  You  know  so  many 
people  in  New  York,  Mrs.  Willis,  can  you  tell  me  the 
name  of  that  gentleman  who  has  replaced  Grousemoor  in 
Miss  Follis's  box — the  one  who  is  just  taking  her  opera- 
glass  ? " 

"  Certainly  ! "  replies  the  matron.  "  That  is  Lord 
Avonmere." 

"  Ah  !  "  He  rises  from  his  seat  and  remarks  :  "  Here's 
Grousemoor  back  and  the  curtain's  coming  down.  You'll 
excuse  me,  I  hope,  from  your  supper  party,  Mrs.  Willis, 
as  I  have  some  business  that  is  imperative." 

With  this  he  leaves  the  lady,  who  thinks  him  rather  an 
abrupt  sort  of  a  personage,  and  passes  into  the  foyer ; 
but  after  pacing  the  corridor  toward  the  Follis  box,  Phil 
apparently  changes  his  mind  and  goes  hastily  down  the 
stairs  and  through  the  main  entrance  into  the  street. 
His  first  impulse  had  been  to  accost  Avonmere  and 
demand  the  particulars  of  Flossie  Willoughby's  death, 
for  he  believes  this  English  lord  has  murdered  the  child 
who  stood  between  him  and  wealth  and  title. 

That  would  have  been  the  way  Pete,  the  cowboy,  would 
have  attacked  the  matter  ;  but  Philip  Everett,  the  Boston 
business  man,  wants  to  be  sure  of  his  facts  before  he 
moves,  and  within  an  hour  a  long  telegraphic  message  is 
speeding  over  the  wires,  addressed  to  Breckinridge  Gar- 
vey,  Sheriff  of  Grant  County,  Silver  City,  New  Mexico. 

Matilde  Follis  this  night  watches  the  falling  curtain  of 
the  Opera  House.  Her  mind  is  too  dazed  to  be  able  to 
analyze  her  emotions  during  this  performance,  that  has 
seemed  to  her  like  a  Chinese  play  which  lasts  for  years. 
The  one  predominating  idea  in  her  mind  is — "It  is 
over  ! — I've  stayed  to  the  end  !  Thank  Heaven  !  None 
have  seen  me  flinch  upon  the  social  rack ! " 

She  has  grown  a  little  paler  near  the  close  ;  that  is  the 


178  MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE. 

only  outward  sign  of  suffering  she  has  given,  for  her  eyea 
have  become  more  haughty  as  the  time  has  gone  on. 
They  have  softened  somewhat  as  Grousemoor  has  taken 
his  seat  behind  her.  Though  he  has  only  passed  the 
compliments  of  the  season,  she  has  understood  what  his 
visit  to  her  meant,  and  her  glance  has  been  slightly 
grateful.  Avonmere,  however,  who  is  behind  her  now, 
she  has  received  with  cordiality  as  he  took  the  seat  the 
other  gave  up  to  him.  She  has  turned,  and  affecting  a 
little  laugh  that  mocked  itself  as  it  issued  from  her  lips, 
has  whispered  :  "  You  can  stay  a  little  longer  than  usual 
this  evening ;  I've  no  other  entertainment  to  go  to,  and 
shall  remain  to  the  end." 

"  Yes,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Marvin,  "  wait,  and  take  us  two 
lone  women  down  to  our  carriage." 

"  That  is  what  I  am  here  for,  with  your  permission," 
remarked  Avonmere,  looking  at  the  girl  for  his  answer. 

But,  thinking  she  sees  compassion  in  his  glance,  her 
spirit  grows  haughty  and  she  answers,  indifferently : 
"  You  must  please  yourself,  Lord  Avonmere." 

"  Certainly,  I  always  please  myself  when  I  am  seated 
here,"  he  whispers  into  the  little  ear  conveniently  near  him. 

She  does  not  answer  this,  though  he  notes  her  look  is 
more  amiable  than  it  has  been  in  the  last  few  minutes. 
So,  after  a  significant  glance  that  is  returned  by  the  wily 
Marvin,  he  remains  quiet  in  his  chair,  and  gazes  at  the 
white,  glistening  shoulders  of  the  girl  he  thinks  will  some 
day  belong  to  him ;  for  he  is  now  pretty  sure,  if  he  plays 
his  cards  right,  pride  will  make  Miss  Follis  give  her 
hand  to  him,  to  humiliate  the  man  who  to-night  has 
slighted  her. 

Thus  he  and  Mrs.  Marvin  watch  Matilde,  whose  face  is 
very  beautiful,  though  the  pathos  has  all  left  it,  and  only 
pride  and  scorn  remain  upon  it. 

The  sole  evidence  of  emotion  she  gives  is  from  a  little 
foot  that  taps  impatiently  the  cushion  on  which  it  rests  ; 
this  suddenly  ceases,  her  hand  clinches  itself  and  her 
eyes  have  a  cruel  look — for  it  has  suddenly  occurred  to 
her  to  tell  her  father  of  the  public  slight  and  leave  her 
vengeance  to  him  ;  but  she  soon  casts  the  whole  idea 
from  her,  for  she  knows  her  father  would  kill  her  insulter, 
and  Matilde  Follis  has  too  healthy  a  mind,  with  all  its 
frivolity,  to  wish  a  blood  atonement, 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERtt.  179 

As  she  thinks  this,  the  curtain  falls,  and  passing  into 
the  vestibule  of  her  box,  she  finds  Avonmere  ready  with 
her  opera  wrap  in  his  hand. 

He  cloaks  her,  and  notes  with  sudden  joy  that  some- 
how  the  girl's  engagement  ring  has  disappeared  from  her 
finger. 

Mrs.  Marvin  also  sees  this,  and  her  face  becomes 
radiant. 

Once  or  twice  this  wily  old  lady  has  tried  to  beckon 
the  new-made  lord  to  her  box,  but  he  has  always  looked 
away,  and  so  made  his  slight  of  Miss  Follis  more  marked. 

So,  quite  pleased  at  her  evening's  work,  the  widow 
says  pleasantly,  "  I'll  move  on  before  you,  Matilde.  Lord 
Avonmere  will  follow  with  you  when  you  have  your  cloak 
arranged.  Be  careful  of  colds,  my  dear;  the  draughts 
in  the  lobbies  of  this  house  are  simply  Siberian." 

Coming  out  into  the  foyer  and  descending  to  the 
lower  lobby  that  leads  to  one  of  the  fortes  cocheres  for 
the  use  of  subscribers  and  box  owners,  Mrs.  Marvin 
chances  to  run  upon  the  derelict  Gussie. 

He  makes  an  abortive  attempt  to  dodge  her,  but  she 
strides  after  him,  cries,  "  Lord  Bassington,  you  haven't 
let  me  congratulate  you  !  "  and  placing  a  plump  and  pow- 
erful hand  upon  his  arm,  laughs,  "  From  whom  are  you 
flying  ? — Not  from  me,  I  hope  ?  " 

To  this  he  listens,  in  an  apologetic  way,  though  he 
has  neither  the  mind  nor  heart  to  appreciate  what  he  has 
made  Matilde  suffer ;  still  he  has  a  feeble  idea  in  his 
head,  which  tells  him  he  ought  to  be  ashamed. 

"  No — a,  I'm  dodging  the  reporters.  They're  after  me 
— like  flies  !  "  he  mutters  ;  and  making  a  sudden  dash  to 
escape  both  Mrs.  Marvin  and  the  reporters,  he  comes 
right  upon  Matilde  Follis,  and  so  gives  to  her  her  one 
chance  for  vengeance  in  this  long  night — and  she  takes 
it! 

The  crush  is  very  great  around  them — they  are  face  to 
face,  with  no  chance  of  dodging.  He  hesitates  and  is  lost. 

Raising  his  hat,  he  smiles  his  sweetest  smile  and  says, 
"  Good  evening,  Miss  Matilde  !  "  And  she,  looking  straight 
in  his  face  as  if  she  had  never  known  him,  and  talking 
quietly  and  easily,  cuts  him  dead  ! — right  under  the  eye 
of  every  one — for  those  about  them  are  gazing  at  their 
meeting. 


I  So  MISS  NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

He  blushes,  grows  red  and  stands  abashed  as  she 
sweeps  on  under  Avonmere's  wing  to  the  porte  cochkre 
and  signals  her  footman  for  her  carriage. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  says  Mr.  Mac,  the  great  society  leader, 
who  is  just  behind  her,  to  his  friend  Colonel  Hicks  Van 
Ransaleer.  "  Did  you  see  that  ? — she  cut  the  little  cad 
like  an  archduchess.  There's  breeding  in  that  girl,  blood 
or  no  blood  1 "  and  following  after  Miss  Follis,  he  cuts 
Lord  Bassington  also,  though  that  new-made  peer  is 
holding  out  his  hand,  expecting  an  effusive  greeting. 

Then  overtaking  the  girl,  whose  social  training  he  has 
admired  this  evening,  Mr.  Mac  says  a  few  pleasant  words 
to  Miss  Follis  and  asks  her  to  be  sure  and  come  to  the 
next  Patriarchs',  of  which,  like  most  other  subscription 
entertainments,  he  is  lord  and  master  ;  and  her  carriage 
coming  up,  he  and  Lord  Avonmere  assist  Mrs,  Marvin  and 
the  young  lady  in. 

As  they  drive  away  into  the  street,  lined  with  equipages 
waiting  to  pick  up  their  owners,  Mrs.  Marvin  reaches  over 
in  the  seclusion  of  the  carriage  and  gives  the  girl  a  hearty 
kiss,  saying,  "  You  won  at  the  last  in  a  canter,  you  brave 
little  girl ! " 

But  she  suddenly  stops  her  chatter,  for,  the  strain  being 
crer,  Miiilde  Follis  is  crying  as  if  heart  would  break. 


BOOK   III 

Miss  SOMEBODY  OF  SOMEWHERE 


CHAPTER  XVL 
LORD  AVONMERE'S  GHOST. 

THIS  night  Phil  Everett  has  sent  a  telegram  to  Ne* 
Mexico,  but  he  desires  information  from  England,  and 
doesn't  know  exactly  from  whom  to  get  it. 

Waiting  till  Grousemoor's  return  from  Mrs.  Willis's 
supper  party,  he  takes  that  gentleman  aside,  and  know- 
ing he  can  trust  his  secrecy  and  discretion,  says  to  him  : 
"  You  told  me  to  ask  your  aid  in  a  matter  that  you  saw 
troubled  me." 

"  Certainly." 

"That  aid  I  wish  now." 

"  Very  well,  old  man,"  returns  Phil's  listener.  u  It's 
serious,  I  see  by  your  face.  Out  with  it  !  " 

"  I  wish  your  aid  to  bring  the  murderer  of  Florence 
Beatrice  Stella  Willoughby,  Lady  Avonmere,  to  justice. 
That's  her  name,  I  read  it  in  Burke  at  the  Club  coming 
from  the  Opera." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  gasps  Grousemoor,  half  think- 
ing  Phil  crazy. 

"  I  mean  that  I  have  good  reason  to  believe,  Arthur, 
Lord  Avonmere,  murdered  or  in  some  way  disposed  of 
that  child  who  stood  between  him  and  his  present  title." 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  mutters  the  Scotchman,  his  fresh 
and  ruddy  face  growing  slightly  pale  under  this  startling 
disclosure.  "  You  must  have  good  reasons  for  thU  !  " 


I$2  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

"  Lots  !  "  says  Phil  ;  and,  not  believing  in  half  confi- 
dences, he  tells  him  all  he  knows,  reading  him  the 
curious  document  that  bears  the  dead  Englishman's 
signature. 

To  this  Grousemoor  listens  with  occasional  interjec- 
tions of  surprise  and  horror. 

Concluding,  Phil  says  :  "  Give  me  the  name  of  some 
English  solicitor  to  whom  I  can  write  for  the  proofs  of 
little  Flossie's  death,  that  must  have  been  given  before 
Avonmere  could  get  the  title.  I  want  to  see  how  he 
said  the  Indians  killed  her." 

The  peer  considers  a  moment,  and  then  says  :  "  Ad- 
dress George  Ramsey,  4  Cornhill,  London.  He's  the 
man  you  want." 

"  Thank  you,"  replies  Everett,  "  I'll  write  to  him  at 
once,"  and  is  about  to  go  to  his  room. 

"  You're  resolved  to  take  up  this  matter,  Phil  ?  "  says 
Grousemoor,  striding  after  him.  "  Remember  it's  a  very 
serious  affair." 

"  I  only  remember  that  I  loved  the  child  he  has 
wronged  and  injured,"  mutters  Phil.  "  When  I  think  of 
her,  braving  bullets  to  bring  me  water  in  her  little  hat, 
and  I  wounded  and  too  weak  to  move,  I — my  God,  if 
that  cursed  villain  has  killed  her  !  "  and  tears  come  into 
the  Boston  business  man's  eyes. 

The  next  day's  outgoing  mail  steamer  for  England 
carries  a  letter,  the  reading  of  which  would  not  have 
pleased  Arthur,  Lord  Avonmere  ;  though  at  present  he 
is  one  of  the  happiest  of  men,  for  everything  has  gone  to 
his  wishes  in  the  Follis  affair. 

Mrs.  Marvin  on  the  way  home  from  the  opera  has 
played  Avonmere's  cards  very  well  for  him. 

The  first  portion  of  the  ride  has  been  a  journey  of 
horror  to  the  widow,  for  in  an  outbreak  of  sobs  Matilde 
has  talked  wildly  of  giving  up  the  struggle  of  society,  and 
going  back  to  Denver,  and  dad  and  Bob  ;  where  all  are 
kind  to  her. 

During  this  La  Marvin  has  gazed  upon  her  in  speech- 
less, panicky  despair. 

But  as  Matilde's  sobs  have  grown  fainter,  Mrs.  Marvin 
has  plucked  up  hope  again,  and  saying  nothing  about 
the  treatment  the  girl  has  received  from  little  Gussie,  she 
has  turned  the  conversation  upon  other  topics,  chiefly 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  183 

the  attentions  of  Lord  Avonmere  and  the  compliment 
that  Mr.  Mac  has  paid  her ;  waiting  for  Miss  Follis  to 
bring  up  the  subject  that  she  knows  is  uppermost  in  her 
mind. 

This  has  a  soothing  effect  on  the  girl's  nerves.  Aftei 
a  little  she  says  with  a  slight  laugh  :  "  It's  lucky  I  never 
loved  that  wretch." 

"  Loved  who  ?  " 

"  Lord  Bassington — Augustus — little  Gussie  !  **  sneers 
the  young  lady.  "  Then  I  might  have  succumbed  under 
his  neglect  and  have  shown  it  to  that  grinning  crowd. 
As  it  is,  I  believe  I've  rather  the  best  of  it,  and  shall 
have  more  the  best  of  it  before  I've  done  with  him." 
This  last  is  said  in  a  significantly  vindictive  voice. 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  " 

"  Crush  him — crush  him  to  the  dust ! "  cries  Miss 
Tillie,  and  her  ivory  fan-sticks  crash  under  her  excited 
clutch. 

"  Yes,  you  might  have  a  sweet  revenge,"  murmurs  the 
widow  contemplatively.  "There  are  older  titles  than 
that  of  little  Gussie." 

"  Yes,  and  one  of  them — is  at  my  feet,"  mutters  the 
girl. 

Then  the  cunning  old  diplomat  puts  in  a  deft  master 
stroke.  She  whispers,  "  Of  course — every  one  says  that." 

"  Says  what  ?  " 

"  Says  that  you  have  jilted  Gussie  for  Lord  Avonmere. 
They  all  thought  this  evening  that  Gussie,  being  dis- 
carded, did  not  dare  to  come  to  your  box." 

"  Did  they  think  THAT  ? "  cries  the  girl,  with  a  triumph- 
ant laugh.  "  But  we  are  at  home,  Mrs.  Marvin."  And 
running  up  her  front  stairs  she  says  to  the  awaiting  butler 
in  the  hall,  "  No  supper  this  evening  for  me,  thank  you," 
and  goes  up  to  her  room,  a  flash  of  triumph  in  her  fresh 
young  face  ;  leaving  the  w'dow  gazing  after  her,  with  the 
smile  of  victory  on  her  more  mature  and  worldly  coun 
tenance,  at  the  heiress's  significant  words. 

Before  she  goes  to  bed  that  night,  Mrs.  Marvin  nar- 
rates this  conversation  in  a  note  to  Lord  Avonmere,  end- 
ing with  the  old  adage,  "  Strike  while  the  iron  is  hot !  " 

This  note  sent  by  a  messenger  boy  reaches  Avonmere 
while  he  is  at  breakfast  the  next  morning. 

Another  lingering  Mercury  of  the  District  Telegraph 


I&4  MISS  NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

Company  has  brought  to  Mr.  Gussie,  whose  apartments 
are  on  the  same  floor,  a  packet  addressed  "  Baron  Bas- 
sington,"  and  demanded  a  receipt  for  the  same. 

As  he  gives  this,  Augustus  notes  the  handwriting  on 
the  package,  and  turns  pale. 

He  comes  hurriedly  into  the  breakfast  room  and  ad 
dresses  Avonmere.      That  gentleman  is   just   finishing 
Mrs.  Marvin's  note,  and  looks  up  at  him  with  a  contented 
smile. 

"  I  want  to  ask  your  advice — as  a  brother  peer,"  says 
Gussie.  "  If  there's  any  threat  for  damages  for  breach 
of  promise — I  presume  the  proper  thing  would  be  to 
refer  her  to  my  solicitors.  It's  the  usual  form  in  such 
cases  when  men  of  title  are  persecuted." 

"Yes,  I  believe  it's  the  usual  form,"  mutters  Avon- 
mere,  who  has  had  one  or  two  such  matters  on  his  hands 
with  adventuresses  in  days  gone  by.  Then  he  says 
suddenly  and  savagely,  "  You  don't  suppose  that  Miss 
Follis  will  bring  suit  against  you  ? "  and  would  break 
little  Gussie 's  head  and  throw  him  down-stairs,  did 
not  his  plans  compel  him  to  remain  on  good  terms  with 
Baron  Bassington  for  a  day  or  two  longer. 

"  No,  I  hardly  think  so,"  mutters  Gussie  ;  "  but  in  case 
of  any  trouble  I  shall  refer  her  to  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co." 

"  I  should  by  no  means  go  to  them  ! "  says  Avonmere 
uneasily. 

"No!    Why  not?" 

**  They'll  charge  you  a  pretty  penny." 

**  Oh  ! "  cries  Gussie,  "  talent  always  comes  high," 
and  he  opens  the  packet  to  find  a  little  case  containing 
his  engagement  ring  and  one  or  two  other  little  knick- 
knacks  he  has  presented — but  no  word  from  his  fiancee 
of  yesterday. 

"  By  Jove  !  not  going  to  make  a  fuss  after  all.  Poor 
little  gal — feels  too  bad  to  say  anything.  I  was  much 
obliged  to  you,  old  boy,  last  night,  softening  the  affair  for 
her,  palliating  my  ignoring  her.  The  proper  thing  in  a 
brother  peer — do  the  same  for  you  !  So  that  affair's 
over — now  for  others  '  Oh,  what  a  pile  of  notes  !  "  he 
babbles  on — hurriedly  running  through  his  mail.  "  Invites 
from  everybody,  and  all  addressed  'Lord  Bassington.' 
Do  you  know,  when  I  woke  this  morning,  I  thought  the 
whole  thing  was  a  dream  and  I  was  Gussie  Van  Beekman 


MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE.  185 

again — that  awakening  was  worse  than  a  nightmare — I 
•creamed.  But  I'm  out  of  all  little  Gussie's  trouble, 
thank  Heaven  I  I've  been  having  a  levee  this  morning 
— I've  had  all  my  tradespeople  up  and  offered  to  pay 
their  bills,  but  they  wouldn't  take  their  money  from  Lord 
Bassington,  though  Van  Beekman's  ducats  would  have 
been  reaped  with  alacrity, — so  I  ordered  lots  more  to 
please  them.  Bought  a  mail  phaeton  and  a  drag  from 
Brewster,  and  as  for  clothes,  boots,  gloves,  and  under- 
wear, wait  till  you  gaze  on  them.  I  must  have  spent  a 
cool  ten  thousand  this  morning." 

"  Pounds  ?  "  ejaculates  Avonmere. 

"  No,  dollars !  And  all  I  paid  for  were  two  teams, 
one  seal  brown  and  the  other  cross  matched.  These 
horse  dealers  are  cash-on-the-naii  chaps,  so  I  gave  'em 
my  check.  I  think  I'll  go  down  to  Gill  &  Patrick's  and 
look  over  their  stock  of  jewelry,"  murmurs  the  new  lord, 
slipping  Matilde's  engagement  ring  on  his  little  finger. 
"  Very  glad  Miss  Follis  didn't  make  a  row." 

"  No,"  returns  Avonmere  who  has  listened  to  this  ef- 
fusion with  a  sneer  of  contempt.  "  Matilde  Follis  will 
give  you  no  trouble  ;  but  you  forget  her  father,  who  is,  I 
am  informed,  a  very  dangerous  customer ;  besides,  the  girl 
has  a  half  brother,  or  sweetheart,  or  some  relative  out 
in  the  mines.  He's  a  very  sure  shot,  I'm  told,  and  has 
laid  out  his  man  in  street  fights  more  than  once." 

"  Good  Gad  !  I'd  forgotten  the  border-ruffian  father," 
mutters  Gussie.  "  What  am  I  to  do  ?  I'd  better  offer  to 
renew  the  engagement  till  I  get  across  the  pond." 

At  this  Avonmere  bursts  out  laughing,  for  the  Crusa- 
der blood  of  old  Hugo  de  Bassington  has  fled  from  the 
present  lord's  face,  and  his  lips  are  trembling. 

The  Englishman  remarks  slowly,  fighting  down  a  tone 
of  sarcasm  in  his  voice,  "  I  think  the  safest  way  for  you 
to  do,  my  dear  Bassington,  will  be  to  say  nothing  about 
jilting  Miss  Follis.  She  has  a  certain  kind  of  plebeian 
backwoods  pride  that  will  perhaps  prevent  her  mention- 
ing this  matter  to  her  cut-throat  relatives,  and  they  may 
let  you  live." 

"  Yaas,  that'll  be  the  better  way,"  lisps  Gussie.  **  Mum's 
the  word  !  "  and  he  rises,  leaving  Avonmere  looking  over 
the  newspapers. 

"  Beastly  jealous  fellows  those  penny-a-liners,"  he 


1 86  MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE. 

gazing  back  from  the  door.  "  The  whole  lot  of  them 
never  gave  me  a  head-line,  when  it's  really  a  matter  of 
national  moment." 

"  My  lord's  carriage  is  in  waiting,"  announces  the  ser- 
vant with  great  empressement,  and  with  a  muttered  "  Au 
revoir"  Baron  Bassington  departs  to  new  extravagances 
and  social  honors. 

Avonmere  is  happy  to  note  that  the  journals  do  not  say 
as  much  about  the  recently  discovered  lord  as  he  had  ex- 
pected ;  most  of  their  city  editors  being  wary  individuals 
and  suspicious  of  sudden  and  unaccountable  things. 
Though  none  of  the  papers  express  a  direct  doubt  as  to 
the  new  peer's  title,  most  of  them  mention  the  affair  as  a 
rumor  in  articles  of  only  moderate  length. 

"  If  little  Gussie  had  mentioned  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co. 
to  them,"  laughs  Avonmere,  "  he'd  probably  had  longer 
notices  ;  as  it  is,  they'll  make  him  celebrated  in  a  day  or 
two.  If  I  know  anything  of  the  New  York  press  they'll 
give  him  head-lines  before  they're  done  with  him." 

A  moment  after  a  new  thought  comes  to  him,  he  quotes 
from  Mrs.  Marvin's  letter,  "  Strike  while  the  iron  is 
hot!" 

Then  going  to  his  room  he  arrays  himself  very  care- 
fully and  faultlessly  ;  and  with  a  face  that  is  pale  with 
anxiety  at  one  moment  and  flushed  with  expectant  pas- 
sion at  another,  for  in  his  earthly  way  he  loves  this  West- 
ern beauty,  Lord  Avonmere  walks  out  of  his  house  and 
strolls  up  Fifth  Avenue,  rings  the  door-bell  of  the  Follis 
mansion — TO  STRIKE  ! 

To  his  question,  the  footman  says  that  Miss  Follis  is 
at  home,  and  shows  him  into  the  reception  room. 

Here  he  sits  down  and  meditates  upon  his  plan  of 
campaign. 

But  thought  gives  way  to  action  under  the  rustle  of 
approaching  skirts.  Looking  up  he  sees  Matilde  stand- 
ing in  the  open  doorway,  a  slight  blush  on  her  fair  face, 
a  little  tremble  in  her  coral  lips,  and  blue  eyes  that  droop 
and  languish  as  their  glance  meets  his ;  for  the  wily 
Marvin's  well-planted  seed  has  come  to  fruitful  harvest 
and  filled  Miss  Follis's  mind  with  this  one  great  idea — 
"  Accept  this  man  to-day,  and  the  world  will  say  that  you, 
for  his  sake,  yesterday  jilted  Augustus  Baron  Bassington 
—not  he  you  !  " 


MISS  NOBODY  OP  NOWHIXB.  38? 

Being  brought  up  in  Madame  Lamere's  best  school  of 
aplomb,  though  nervous  and  perhaps  a  little  frightened, 
she  says  "  Good  morning "  to  him  quite  prettily,  but 
doesn't  hold  out  her  hand,  and  mentions  that  her  mother 
and  Mrs.  Marvin  have  just  gone  to  Madame  Lamere's 
to  bring  Miss  Flossie  home  from  school. 

"  Ah !  your  charming  sister  ?  "  interjects  her  visitor. 

"  How  did  you  know  she  was  my  charming  sister  ? 
You  have  never  seen  her,"  remarks  Matilde,  archly. 

"  No,"  he  replies,  gallantly,  "but  I  have  seen  jw*  /" 

"  Oh,  we're  not  at  alt  alike,"  she  laughs  ;  and  then 
stammers  out,  "  What  conceit  in  me — taking  a  compli- 
ment I  compelled  you  to  make." 

"  Reject  the  compliment  if  you  wish,  but  remember 
I've  been  holding  out  my  hand  for  a  minute,"  he  sug- 
gests. 

Thus  compelled,  she  gives  him  a  smiling  blush  and 
her  hand  also,  which  receives  such  tender  treatment  that 
the  smile  leaves  her,  and  the  blush  grows  deeper,  as  she 
explains  to  Avonmere  that  her  sister  is  going  to  live  at 
home,  and  come  out  in  society  right  away  ;  Mrs.  Marvin 
has  suggested  it,  and  Flossie  has  both  implored  and 
fought  for  it. 

"  And  you  ?  "  he  questions. 

"  I  fought  for  it  also  \ — And  when  both  her  daughters 
take  the  war-path,  the  Indian  fighter  generally  gives  in," 
she  rejoins  with  a  slight  laugh.  "  Flossie  and  I  have 
always  been  together  till  this  winter,  and  wish  to  be  side 
by  side  again.  Wait  till  you  see  her — but  they'll  all 
be  here  in  a  few  minutes — and  then  you  will  say  she  is 
charming." 

All  this  has  been  given  him  in  rather  an  embarrassed, 
disconnected,  jerky  way,  as  if  she  wished  to  keep  the 
conversation  all  to  herself  and  permit  her  visitor  to  say 
very  little.  But  Matilde 's  last  remark  brings  upon  her 
the  denouement  she  has  half  wished  to  postpone. 

Avonmere  knows  his  time  will  be  short,  and  gets  to 
business  at  once. 

"  You  seem  a  little  distraite"  he  answers,  "  after  your 
social  triumph  last  night,"  and  moves  his  seat  quite 
close  to  her,  which  makes  her  lose  her  head  and  give  him 
an  opening. 

"  My  social  triumph  ? "  she  echoes.    **  Why,  I  was  sc 


igg  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

overcome  at  my  social  triumph  last  night  that  I  thought 
of  taking  this  morning's  '  Limited '  to  Denver  ! "  Then, 
with  a  little  hollow  laugh  she  is  about  to  place  her  chair 
in  retreat,  but  is  too  late — for  his  hand  is  on  her  wrist 

He  has  his  opportunity  and  uses  it  very  quietly,  very 
cunningly,  but  very  quickly. 

"  You  were  going  away — without  a  word  to  me  1 "  he 
says,  trying  to  keep  the  passion  out  of  his  voice  and 
face,  for  he  has  a  pretty  shrewd  idea  that,  if  he  does 
not  frighten  her  by  loving  her  too  much,  he  will  get  her 
promise.  The  love  business  he  thinks  will  come  after- 
ward. 

She  looks  at  him  rather  coolly,  though  she  does  not 
take  her  hand  from  his  grasp. 

He  goes  on,  "  If  I  had  known  THAT,  I  should  have 
spoken  last  night — I  would  have  spoken  before" 

"  Why,  you've  only  known  me  a  week  !  "  she  gasps  in 
surprise,  and  her  blue  eyes  opening  very  wide  become 
gorgeously  beautiful  to  him. 

"  True,"  he  says,  "  I  had  forgotten  that — it  seems  to 
me  as  if  I  had  known  you  my  lifetime,"  and  the  passion 
comes  into  his  voice  despite  himself.  "  Do  you  know 
what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  gasps  nervously.  Then  becoming  cool,  for 
she  likes  him  less  the  more  he  loves  her,  and  his  eyes  are 
beginning  to  tell  their  tale,  she  remarks  :  "  How  should 
I?" 

"  How  should  you  ?  "  he  cries  bitterly.  "  How  should 
any  woman  know  a  man  loves  her  ?  But  since  you  will 
deceive  yourself — I  will  unmask  myself  I  I  love  you, 
and  I  ask  you  to  be  my  wife — Lady  Avonmere  !  You 
are  the  first  woman  who  has  ever  heard  those  words  from 
my  lips."  Which  is  the  grim  truth  of  the  matter,  for 
until  dearth  of  money  suggested  it,  his  worst  enemy 
could  never  have  accused  him  of  being  a  marrying  man. 

At  this  she  grows  very  pale,  and  says  very  slowly,  "  I 
will  be  candid  with  you — I  do  not  love  you — I  love  no 
man  !  I'll  have  no  more  pretended  affection  on  my 
conscience.  Do  you  know,  my  greatest  happiness  last 
night  as  I  smiled  into  that  inconstant  idiot's  face  was — 
that  he  had  never  kissed  me  ! "  She  is  red  as  a  rose 
now,  but  manages  to  stammer  out,  "  If  you'll  take  me 
after  thig  confession — if  you  think  me  worthy  of  youf 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  1 89 

name  now — my  hand  is  yours,"  and  she  holds  it  out  to 
him,  trembling,  and  shaking,  with  both  shame  and  feal 
— shame  at  what  she  has  revealed,  fear  that  he  may  de- 
spise her,  and  crush  her  pride  by  refusing  the  apology 
offered  for  her  heart. 

He  looks  at  it  a  moment ;  then  takes  the  pretty  mem 
ber  in  his  grasp  and  salutes  it  as  his  ancestor  would  have 
done  in  the  time  of  the  Second  Charles.     "  I  accept  this," 
he  says,  lightly.     "  Agreed,  we  marry  ;  but  neither  of  us 
love." 

But  here  Mother  Eve  comes  into  Matilde  ;  she  snatches 
her  hand  away  and  giving  him  a  reproachful  pout  whis- 
pers, "  You  don't  love  me  ?  "  and  looking  more  beautiful 
than  ever  opens  the  flood-gates  of  his  passion. 

"Don't  I?"  he  cries.  "By  this  I  and  THIS!  I  do." 
And  crushing  her  beautiful  figure  in  his  strong  arms,  he 
draws  her  blushing  face  to  his,  and  after  this  Matilde 
Follis  can  never  say  of  him  as  she  did  of  little  Gussie, 
"  Thank  God,  this  man  never  kissed  me  ! " 

She  struggles  from  him,  throws  herself  upon  a  sofa 
with  a  faint  affrighted  cry  and  covers  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

Though  he  cannot  see  the  working  of  her  mind, 
curiously  enough  he  has  done  the  very  best  thing  he 
could  to  further  his  plans  ;  for  now  she  thinks,  "  I  can 
wed  no  other  man  ;  shame,  if  naught  else,  will  drive  me 
to  the  altar  with  this  one." 

So  he  stands  gazing  at  her,  a  smile  of  triumph  on  his 
clear-cut  features  and  elated  passion  in  his  Italian  eyes; 
her  beauty  as  she  pants  and  sobs  is  greater  than  it  was 
before. 

But  this  does  not  last  long.  Among  the  sounds  of  the 
great  thoroughfare  outside,  is  that  of  a  halting  carriage. 
She  springs  up,  and  whispering  an  affrighted  "  Don't 
speak  of  your  victory, yet"  flies  from  the  room. 

She  is  just  in  time ;  a  servant  is  opening  the  front 
door,  and  there  are  voices  in  the  vestibule  leading  to 
the  street. 

These  come  to  Avonmere  in  a  confused  manner. 

Then  Mrs.  Follis  enters  and  says  cordially,  "  How  are 
ycr  ?  We've  just  brought  my  Floss  home,  ahe'li  be 
down  in  a  minute  ;  you  wait  and  see  her,"  and  will  take 
no  denial,  for  she  is  very  proud  of  ber  adopted  child. 


190  MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE. 

A  moment  after,  Matilde  comes  back  without  a  sign  o! 
the  agitation  of  her  recent  scene.  She  has  a  pleasant 
little  fib  on  her  lips,  having  just  run  in  to  see  that  they 
had  a  good  lunch  for  Flossie — servants  are  not  to  be 
trusted,  and  boarding-school  girls  are  always  hungry. 

So  he  remains,  and  they  go  into  a  pleasant  little  chat, 
Mrs.  Follis  telling  him,  in  her  peculiar  diction,  of  the 
way  her  daughter  Floss  has  struggled  to  get  out  of 
Madame  Lamere's  clutches  and  take  a  "  posish "  in 
society. 

Which  Avonmere  endures  in  a  lazy,  dreamy  way,  being 
quite  anxious  to  get  on  good  terms  with  the  mother  of  his 
betrothed. 

During  this  he  occasionally  steals  a  glance  at  the  young 
lady,  whose  cheeks  blush  under  his  gaze,  though  her  eyes 
have  an  appealing  look  in  them  when  they  meet  his, 
which  is  not  often,  as  she  seems  interested  in  everything 
but  her  fiance. 

Noting  this,  Avonmere  wisely  judges  that  his  kisses 
have  conquered  this  haughty  young  lady,  and  that  he 
has  only  to  play  the  master,  to  be  it. 

He  is  very  happy  in  this  idea,  and  when  a  moment 
after  Mrs.  Marvin  comes  in,  he  gives  her  a  glance  that 
telegraphs  his  triumph. 

But  even  while  answering  it,  that  astute  diplomatist 
sees  his  face  change  under  her  eyes  and  grow  suddenly 
ashen.  "  The  same  as  he  showed  when  he  saw  the 
photograph  of  the  '  Baby '  mine  canon,"  thinks  the  old 
lady,  and  looks  round  for  the  cause  of  this  mental  phe- 
pomenon. 

There  is  no  change  in  the  room,  save  that  Miss  Flossie, 
with  sparkling  happy  eyes,  at  her  freedom  from  school 
and  entree  into  the  world,  is  standing  in  the  doorway. 

Mrs.  Marvin  takes  another  glance  at  Avonmere. 
Drops  of  perspiration  are  on  his  forehead,  which  is  white 
as  marble.  He  has  even  gripped  the  chair  to  save  himself 
from  falling — for  he  had  risen  to  receive  Mrs.  Marvin. 

"  Can  it  be  Flossie's  voice  ?  "  thinks  his  observer,  for 
that  young  lady  is  crying  out,  "  Oh  !  what  lovely  rooms 
you've  given  me — the  best  in  the  house.  Mother,  you've 
robbed  yourself." 

"  I  got  out  of  them  not  for  your  sake,  but  my  own," 
says  Mrs.  Follis.  "I  don't  like  their  posish.  In  that 


MISS  NOBODY   OF  NOWHERE.  191 

corner  suet  the  racket  from  milkmen  and  hack  drivers 
would  have  made  your  dad  crazy,  when  he  turns  up  from 
Denver/' 

"  You  always  say  something  of  that  kind  when  you  do 
anything  particularly  generous  for  me,  mother,"  returns 
the  girl,  coming  up  to  Mrs.  Follis  and  getting  hold  of  her 
hand. 

The  next  instant  Matilde  has  said  :  "  Flossie,  let  me 
present  Lord  Avonmere,"  and  turning  round  she  for  the 
first  time  sees  the  Englishman,  and  grows  taller  and  more 
statuesque. 

"  Oh,  Lord  Avonmere,"  she  lisps  in  the  nonchalant 
way  Mrs.  Marvin  had  seen  when  she  first  met  her. 
"  I'm  very  happy,"  and  holds  out  a  welcoming  hand. 

"  I've — I've  heard  of  you  from  your  sister,"  that 
gentleman  contrives  to  get  out,  though  the  widow  notes 
two  little  gasps  in  his  voice,  which  has  grown  hoarser 
and  more  guttural  than  it  usually  is. 

As  the  sound  comes  to  Miss  Flossie's  ears,  she  looks 
disappointed  for  a  second  and  then  goes  calmly  on. 
"  You've  been  very  well  known  to  me  for  some  time." 

"  A — ah,"  he  says  in  a  kind  of  startled  way. 

"Yes,  Madame  Lamere's  opera  class  have  devoted 
their  lorgnettes  to  you — I  was  one  of  them.  I  hope  we'll 
be  good  friends.  I'm  going  to  my  first  dance  to-night ; 
Mrs.  Rivington's.  Mrs.  Marvin  was  so  kind  as  to  get 
me  an  invitation." 

"  But  your  clothes ? "  gasps  her  mother. 

"Oh,  that's  already  arranged,"  laughs  the  girl.  "Anti- 
cipating my  nuptials,  I  ordered  my  trousseau  a  month 
ago.  Behold  White,  Howard  &  Co. !  "  and  looking  out 
of  the  window,  she  points  to  a  wagon  delivering  a  series 
of  boxes  and  baskets  with  the  brand  of  this  well-known 
firm  of  caterers  to  woman's  extravagance  in  dress. 

"  Nuptials  ?  Trousseau  ?  Great  Scott !  Who  are  you 
going  to  marry?"  screams  Mrs.  Follis,  overcome  and  pale. 

"  Society,  mother  dear,"  lisps  the  girl. 

"  Oh,  that's  what  you're  driving  at,"  gasps  Rachel. 
a  You  gave  me  an  awful  turn  with  your  enigmatical 
language."  Then  sne  says  sternly  :  "  I  don't  like  double 
entenders  from  young  girls." 

At  this  there  is  a  ripple  of  laughter,  during  which 
Avonmere  contrives  to  take  his  leave,  Miss  Flossie  saying 


l$2  MISS   NOBODY   OP    NOWHERE. 

to  him  as  he  bids  her  good-by,  •*  Don't  forget  Mr&, 
Rivington's,  I'm  sure  you  have  an  invitation,"  m  a  tone 
that  makes  a  very  curious  light  come  into  Matilde's  eyes. 

A  moment  after,  noticing  that  her  sister  has  no  en- 
gagement ring  on  her  finger,  the  debutante  gives  Mrs. 
Marvin  a  grateful  glance  and  remarks  :  ' '  And  now  the 
society  lady  will  take  her  lunch,"  assuming  a  grand  air 
and  striding  off  to  the  dining-room.  Here  she  is  followed 
by  Matilde,  who  talks  to  her  as  she  feasts,  for  it  is 
quite  late  in  the  day  and  the  others  have  lunched  long 
ago. 

As  for  Avonmere,  he  gets  down  the  street  somehow  for 
a  block  or  two,  then  chancing  to  sight  an  empty  cab,  he 
hails  the  driver,  gets  in  and  is  driven  home,  muttering  to 
himself  :  "  Impossible.  There  was  her  mother  and  sitfter. 
What  nonsense !  And  yet — just  how  she  would  have 
grown  up.  The  image  of  Agnes  Willoughby  !  That 
trick  of  the  eyes."  Then  he  suddenly  gives  a  low  but 
awful  groaning  laugh  and  cries  :  "  By  Jove  !  I'm  get- 
ting a  conscience,  like  Macbeth — I'm  seeing  ghosts  I  " 


CHAPTER   XVIL 

"DARN  ME  IF  IT   AIN'T  PETE  I* 

"  GOING  to  Mrs.  Rivington's  function  to-night  ?"  bab- 
bles Mr.  Gussie,  coming  into  Avonmere's  apartments 
about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the  day  that  gentle- 
man has  had  his  Macbeth  soliloquy,  and  finding  him 
rather  out  of  sorts  and  in  a  very  bad  humor. 

"  I  may  and  I  may  not,"  he  says  shortly  and  snap* 
pily. 

"Thendont!" 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I'm  going  to  give  a  little  supper  to-night  to 
some  of  the  old  crowd.  I  want  to  show  them  how  an 
English  nobleman  with  a  big  income  entertains,"  he  says 
pompously. 

At  this  declaration  a  peculiar  grin  comes  over  his 
listener's  mobile  features,  and  noting  the  returned  en- 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  193 

gagement  ring,  which  has  sparkled  upon  Gussie's  finger 
during  the  gesticulation  of  his  last  speech,  Avonmere 
remarks  :  "  You  wish  me  to  join  your  party  ?  " 

"Y — a — a — s.  Thought  you  might  like  to  give  a 
brother  peer  your  countenance." 

"  Anything  but  the  supper  ?  " 

"Well,  perhaps  a  little  game  afterward.  The  usual 
thing,  yer  know." 

"  All  right !  "  says  his  lordship  briskly.  "  I'll  accept 
your  invitation  with  pleasure,  Lord  Bassington,"  and  he 
twists  up  a  little  perfumed  note  he  has  in  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  by  Jove  !  I  know  that  handwriting,"  cries  Gussie. 
"  I've  heard  of  you  ;  the  populace  say  you  cut  me  out 
with  Miss  Tillie.  Rather  absurd  idea,  isn't  it !  " 

"  Very  !  "  answers  Avonmere,  who  dares  not  say  much 
for  fear  of  letting  his  temper  get  the  best  of  him.  For 
this  last  insinuation  has  been  made  in  such  a  self-confident 
tone  that  his  listener  wants  to  kick  Augustus  out  of  the 
room  ;  which  he  would  do  had  it  not  occurred  to  him  that 
it  will  be  just  as  well  if  he  gets  back  from  Lord  Bassing- 
ton some  of  the  money  that  had  been  paid  to  him  by 
Messrs.  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co.,  to  induce  him  to  believe 
he  was  an  English  peer  with  a  lordly  rent-roll. 

Besides,  Avonmere  has  been  considering  his  ways  and 
means,  and  to  give  Miss  Follis  a  betrothal  token  hand- 
some enough  to  be  a  suitable  present  from  a  nobleman 
to  a  great  heiress,  will  make  a  serious  inroad  on  his 
available  cash.  Noting  the  gleam  of  the  diamond  on 
Gussie's  finger,  he  thinks  this  may  be  arranged,  and  keeps 
his  temper. 

Therefore  he  says  in  his  kindliest  and  most  cordial 
tones :  "  My  dear  Bassington,  I  will  be  with  you.  At 
what  hour  ? ' * 

"  Oh,  about  eleven !  Delmonico's,  room  i  T.  I'm  going 
to  see  my  venerable  relatives,  old  Van  Twiler  and  Lydia. 
They've  fallen  in  love  with  me  since  I  became  a  peer. 
So  has  the  rest  of  the  world.  Jeems,  is  my  broum  in 
waiting  ?  ** 

"Yes,  your  lordship,"  answers  the  man,  and  little 
Gussie  goes  whistling  off  to  pass  a  yawny  hour  at 
Washington  Square. 

Avonmere  shortly  after  this  writes  to  his  fianfie,  stating 
that  business  will  prevent  him  seeing  her  this  evening 


394  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

either  at  her  own  home  or  Mrs.  Rivington's,  and  beg 
ging  her  to  present  his  compliments  to  her  sister  and 
wish  her  a  pleasant  debut. 

This  note  he  soon  after  despatches  with  a  couple  of 
magnificent  bouquets  from  Klunders,  one  for  Miss  Follis 
and  the  other  for  Miss  Florence ;  then  feeling  himself 
free  from  the  chance  of  seeing  the  girl's  face  this  even- 
ing, he  gives  a  sigh  of  relief. 

For  in  his  soul  of  souls  he  is  shrinking  from  the 
thought  of  meeting  the  flashing  eyes  of  Flossie  Follis. 

"I'll  have  no  more  Macbeth  soliloquies,"  he  says  to 
himself,  with  a  shudder.  "  I'll  not  look  on  my  pretty 
ghost  till  I've  got  my  nerves  in  training." 

With  this  he  goes  out  to  enjoy  Mr.  Gussie's  hospitality, 
and  meeting  the  young  lord  and  several  other  of  his  inti- 
mate friends,  they  make  a  sportive  night  of  it ;  and  the 
cards  being  brought  in,  somehow  luck  favoring  him, 
though  he  handles  the  pasteboards  with  rare  skill,  he 
wins  quite  a  large  amount  of  money,  most  of  it  from  his 
host,  who  plays  very  badly. 

Coming  home  together,  Avonmere  cautions  Lord  Bas- 
sington  to  be  less  reckless  in  his  play  ;  but  is  answered 
with  this  remark  :  "  What  are  a  few  hundreds  or  a  few 
thousands  to  a  nobleman  of  my  means  ?  " 

"  Still,  great  as  they  are,  you  may  find  them  exhausted," 
murmurs  the  Englishman.  "  Besides,  you  hardly  played 
as  well  as  the  rest." 

"  Didn't  I  ?  "  cries  Gussie.  **  The  luck  was  against 
me.  The  cards  running  fairly,  I  can  play  any  man  in 
New  York — you  for  instance." 

"  I  scarcely  think  so  ! " 

»  What  ?  " 

'  You  see  I'm  so  very  fortunate  at  games  of  chance," 
says  Avonmere,  confidently. 

"  Are  you  ?  Well,  I'll  back  my  skill  against  your 
luck,"  returns  Augustus.  "  I  owe  you  five  hundred,  I 
believe." 

"  Five  hundred  and  forty-five,"  corrects  his  companion. 

"  Then  come  into  my  parlor,  and  I'll  owe  you  nothing 
or  more  before  we  get  up." 

"  It's  too  late — nearly  four  o'clock." 

"  Pough  !  that's  about  the  right  time  for  a  thorough 
bred  to  wake  up ! "  cries  Gussie.     "  Coma  f  " 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  195 

"  Very  well,  since  you  insist ! "  says  Avonmere. 
*  Though  I  warn  you,  I  nearly  always  win  ! " 

"  Oh,  rats  !  "  remarks  the  new  lord,  who  has  too  much 
champagne  on  board  for  caution,  and  will  not  be  warned. 

So  the  two  sit  down  for  a  quiet  game,  and  at  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning  Avonmere,  rising  up  from  it,  has 
a  check  on  the  Second  National  for  twenty-five  hundred 
and  odd  dollars  in  his  hand,  and  upon  his  finger  sparkles 
the  engagement  ring  that  Matilde  had  returned  to  Mr. 
Gussie. 

"  You'll  give — a  fellah — his — hie — revenge  ?  "  stutters 
out  the  latter,  who  having  added  brandy  to  his  cham- 
pagne, is  now  in  a  fearful  state. 

"  Certainly.  I  hope  the  loss  does  not  inconvenience 
you  ?  "  returns  Avonmere,  very  politely,  and  goes  off  to 
his  breakfast,  leaving  Augustus  to  get  to  bed,  muttering  : 
"  Inconvenience — a  lord  with  sixty  thousand  a  year  ? 
I'm  afraid  Avonmere's  income  can't  be  any  great  shakes. 
If  so,  I'll — I'll  cut  him,  by  the  blood  of  old  Hugo  de 
Bas — Bassington  !  when  I  cross  the — er — herrin'  pond." 

Strolling  into  Delmonico's,  that  he  had  left  but  five 
hours  before,  Avonmere  makes  a  very  comfortable  break- 
fast, then  walks  down  to  Twenty-third  Street,  enters 
the  Second  National  Bank,  and  as  the  clock  strikes  ten, 
presents  Bassington's  check,  and  gives  a  sigh  of  relief  as 
it  is  paid.  For  he  has  been  mortally  afraid  that  there 
may  not  be  funds  enough  to  meet  it,  little  Gussie's 
extravagance  has  been  so  great.  Then  strolling  to 
Tiffany's,  he  twists  the  jewel  out  of  the  ring  on  his  finger 
and  orders  it  reset  and  properly  initialled  for  his  betrothal 
offering  to  Miss  Follis. 

Being  promised  that  it  will  be  ready  by  the  afternoon, 
he  goes  home,  and  getting  to  bed  sleeps  the  sleep  of  the 
wicked,  which  is  sometimes  as  sound  as  that  of  the  just 
— especially  after  the  wicked  has  been  spreeing,  gaming, 
and  tooting  all  night. 

That  afternoon,  his  man  calling  him  about  four  o'clock, 
Avonmere  rises  from  his  slumbers,  and  feeling  quite  cer- 
tain he  has  driven  the  ghost  from  his  imagination,  for 
that  is  what  he  terms  Miss  Flossie,  thinks  he  will  stroll 
up  the  avenue  and  slip  his  engagement  manacle  upon 
Matilde's  pretty  finger. 

This  bauble  has  already  arrived  from  Messrs.    Tif« 


a$6  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHEBLik 

fany,  who  usually  keep  their  promises.  So,  with  Gussie'* 
diamond  sparkling  in  his  pocket,  my  lord  is  in  a  quietly 
pleasant  state  of  mind  when  he  rings  the  door-bell  of 
Number  637  Fifth  Avenue. 

In  answer  to  his  inquiry,  "  Is  Miss  Follis  at  home  ?  " 
the  servant,  with  the  carelessness  of  American  menials, 
says  :  "  Yes,  my  lord  ;  she's  in  the  reception  room,"  and 
promptly  shows  him  into  that  apartment,  announcing 
him  at  the  door. 

The  room  has  not  yet  been  lighted,  and,  the  season 
being  mid-winter,  is  quite  dark  at  half-past  four  in  the 
afternoon  ;  for  in  most  New  York  houses  the  windows 
are  very  heavily  curtained,  partly  to  keep  the  apart- 
ments as  warm  as  possible  and  partly  to  show  off  as 
much  elaborate  draperies  and  lace  as  can  be  exhib- 
ited. 

As  he  enters,  a  young  lady  arises.  Then,  taking  a 
sudden  glance  around  the  room  to  see  there  is  no  one 
else  present,  Avonmere,  with  the  eagerness  of  that  emo- 
tion he  compliments  by  calling  love,  steps  rapidly 
toward  her.  "  My  darling  "  is  already  formed  and  on 
his  lips,  when  a  voice  comes  to  him  and  makes  him 
tremble  and  grow  pale  once  more. 

But  with  an  effort  he  controls  himself  and  listens,"  for 
it  is  only  the  tones  of  Miss  Flossie  Follis,  who  is  holding 
out  her  hand  to  him,  and  crying  with  the  impulsive 
frankness  of  girlhood :  "  Thank  you,  so  much,  Lord 
Avonmere,  for  the  beautiful  bouquet  you  sent  me  last 
evening  ;  I  carried  it  to  Mrs.  Rivington's  dance." 

"  I — am — glad  you  liked  it,"  murmurs  the  gentleman 
addressed,  with  a  tremor  in  his  articulation  that,  fight 
how  he  may,  will  get  into  it  ;  the  voice  is  so  like-~-that 
of  the  past. 

"  Oh,  I  did,  thoroughly !  I  told  Tillie  it  was  much 
prettier  than  hers,  though  she  would  not  admit  it.  But 
why  don't  you  sit  down  ?  Mamma  is  out,  so  is  Tillie 
and  Mrs.  Marvin,  and  I  am  arbiter  of  your  comfort 
It  is  too  dark  to  see,  but  I  know  you  are  standing  up 
and  uneasy."  Then  ringing  the  bell,  Miss  Flossie  says  : 
'  Lights,  Thomas  !  "  in  the  easy  tone  of  young  ladyhood, 
that  indicates  she  has  already  put  Madame  Lamere's 
boarding-school  behind  her,  and  instead  of  obeying,  as- 
pects to  command. 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  197 

This  being  done,  she  turns  to  her  guest,  who  has  been 
gazing  at  her  as  if  hypnotized,  and  asks  :  "  Why  were 
you  not  at  Mrs.  Rivington's  ?  "  then  pouts,  "  You  might 
have  come,  to  my  first  party." 

"  Impossible  ! — Business  !  "  murmurs  Avonmere. 

"Business? — a  lord  has  business?"  she  echoes  in  a 
suppressed  laugh.  "Why,  I  had  supposed  it  one  of  the 
privileges  of  your  rank  to  do  nothing  ?" 

"  Oh  ! "  returns  the  gentleman,  "  I  work  often." 

"  All  last  night,  eh  ?  " 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  said  so  :  your  note  told  of  midnight 
labors.  Besides,  I  heard " 

"  What  ? " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Benson  was  at  Mrs.  Rivington's  last  even- 
ing. He  came  late — was  introduced  to  me.  He  doesn't 
talk  well  to  ladies.  Seems  to  think  it  his  glory  to  show 
how  wicked  he  is :  consequently,  he  is  dangerous  to  the 
good  name  of  the  rest  of  you.  In  displaying  his  dissi- 
pations he  discloses  yours.  He  told  me  he  had  just 
left  you  and  Lord  Bassington.  You  had  gone  in  for  all- 
night  poker." 

"  Did  he  mention  no  other  names  ?  "  asks  Avonmere. 

"  No,"  returns  the  girl,  lazily,  playing  with  a  bonbot 
holder  she  has  in  her  hand.  "  The  rest  were  Americans. 
I  presume.  Mr.  Benson  did  not  think  their  names 
would  give  importance  to  him,  and  so  spared  them." 

*c  He  didn't  tell  that  story  to  Matilde,  did  he  ?  "  ques. 
tions  the  English  lord  with  a  start,  his  brain  heaping 
mental  curses  upon  the  head  of  the  babbling  Benson ; 
for  he  has  suddenly  remembered  that  his  note  told  his 
fiancle  of  important  and  unpostponable  business. 

"  I — I  believe  he  did,"  answers  Miss  Flossie,  some- 
what maliciously.  "  Mr.  Benson  is  a  curious  young  man, 
I  asked  him  how  he  could  leave  such  society  as  yours. 
Perhaps  my  vanity  expected  some  of  the  stock-in-trade 
compliments  of  society  men  to  society  women,  such  as, 
'  I  knew  you  were  going  to  be  here,  Miss  Florence,1  or 
1  Mrs.  Rivington  always  has  such  beautiful  girls,  though 
she's  a  little  ahead  of  her  usual  form  this  evening.'  But 
I  was  disappointed  ;  he's  a  Wall  Street  man  and  gave  mo 
a  financial  answer." 

"  And  that  wa« "  say*  his  lordship,  who  !s  anxiom 


198  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

lo  know  the  worst  that  Matilde  may  have  heard  o£ 
him. 

"  Well,"  laughs  the  girl  with  a  mischievous  glance, 
"  he  said,  *  I  never  play  with  Lord  Avonmere,  it  costs  to* 
much  money?  But  you  mustn't  be  angry  with  him.  Mr. 
Benson  was  only  talking  to  amuse  himself  and  me. 
Your  family  name  is  Willoughby,  is  it  not  ? " 

"  Yes,"  returns  the  Englishman,  for  the  girl's  tone  has 
been  so  easily  conversational  that  for  a  moment  he  has 
lost  all  thought  of  the  past.  Then  he  suddenly  asks, 
"  How  did  you  know  ?  "  in  a  voice  that  astounds  her. 

"Why,"  she  says  laughingly,  "at  Madame  Lamere's 
we  studied  Debrett.  Arthur,  23d  Baron  Avonmere — I 
remember — Thomas,  2ist  Baron — Florence  Beatrice. 
Baroness  Avonmere  died  aged  nine — killed  by  Indians  in 
America — country  seats,  Avonmere  Castle,  Hants — Beach - 
man  Manor,  Berks.  I  looked  you  up  again  yesterday," 
and  she  laughs  merrily  at  him,  and  plays  with  her  bonbon 
box,  while  he  sits  gazing  on  her  as  if  on  a  basilisk. 

This  glance  is  so  peculiar  that  in  a  moment  Miss 
Flossie  would  notice  it,  did  not  Matilde  suddenly  enter 
and  take  note  of  it  for  her  own  instruction. 

She  has  just  come  in  from  some  afternoon  tea  or 
reception  ;  and  Mrs.  Marvin,  who  is  always  pleased  to 
chaperone  the  beautiful  heiress,  is  just  behind  her. 

They  are  both  in  carriage  dresses,  the  widow  looking 
dowager-like  in  satins  and  brocades  that  cover  her  two 
hundred  pounds  of  ruby-tinted  figure,  while  Matilde 
seems  like  a  blonde  winter-fairy  in  violet  velvet  trimmed 
with  the  fur  of  the  silver  fox ;  though  as  she  looks  on 
Avonmere,  apparently  devouring  Miss  Flossie  .with  his 
glance,  the  fairy's  eyes  become  rather  excited  and  an- 
noyed and  earth-born. 

She  says  with  a  slight  irritation  in  her  voice,  giving 
the  gentleman,  who  has  sprung  hurriedly  up  to  receive 
her,  a  rather  haughty  bow,  "  I  am  happy  to  see  your 
midnight  business,  Lord  Avonmere,  is  at  length  finished, 
I  hope  my  sister  has  been  able  to  keep  you  awake,  after 
your  prolonged  exertions  of  last  evening. " 

Thus  compelled  to  compliment,  Matilde's  betrothed 
replies  that  Miss  Florence  has  made  his  call  a  very 
pleasant  one. 

And  Flossie  murmurs,  meekly,  <*  I  did  my  best  to  keep 


MI98  NOBODY  OP   NOWHERE.  tfty 

him  here  till  you  arrived,  and  I  am  happy  to  say  suc- 
ceeded.'* Her  eyes  emphasize  the  last  word  in  a  way 
that  makes  Matilde's  orbs  grow  big  with  some  new  emo- 
tion— an  expression  of  countenance  that  causes  the 
watchful  Marvin  great  happiness. 

Her  enjoyment  is  not  shared  by  the  others,  for  the 
conversation  seems  out  of  joint ;  Avontnere  appears 
unable  to  keep  his  eyes  from  the  younger  sister,  which 
causes  the  elder  to  be  distraite,  nervous  and  irritable. 

Twice  Matilde  throws  out  hints  as  to  Flossie's  taking 
time  enough  to  dress  for  dinner,  or  suggests  some  errand 
that  will  remove  that  young  lady  from  the  room. 

But  hints  are  thrown  away  on  the  younger  sister,  who 
sits  very  calmly  talking  about  the  opera  this  evening,  the 
first  one  she  shall  go  to  as  a  young  lady,  and  giving  them 
a  dissertation  on  Madame  Lamere's  opera  classes,  till 
at  length  Avonmere  rises  to  go. 

Matilde  would  follow  him  to  the  hall,  for  she  is  desper- 
ately anxious  to  have  a  two-word  t£te-a-tete  with  him  ;  but 
in  the  exuberant  spirits  of  young  ladyhood  her  sister 
comes  out  beside  her  and  cries,  "Don't  forget  our  box 
to-night,  Lord  Avonmere  !  I  wish  to  make  a  goodly 
showing  of  young  men  on  my  first  night  as  a  debutante. 
Madame  Lamere's  girls  will  be  there,  and  I'm  naughty 
enough  to  wish  the  children  to  see  that  I  am  making 
good  running  for  the  social  stakes.  You  haven't  shaken 
hands  with  me  coming  or  going." 

"  Oh,  I've  reserved  you  for  the  last,"  says  his  lordship 
a  little  nervously,  taking  her  offered  palm. 

At  this  there  comes  an  expression  in  Matilde's  eyes 
that  brings  to  Mrs.  Marvin  a  chuckling  joy. 

"  The  dear  little  innocent,  how  she  plays  my  game  for 
me  ! "  thinks  that  female  diplomat.  "  If  Miss  Flossie 
keeps  this  up,  Matilde'll  be  jealous  enough  to  elope  with 
Avonmere." 

That  gentleman  has  just  passed  out— Miss  Florence  is 
on  her  way  up-stairs. 

So,  anxious  to  give  this  idea  a  good  start  and  favoring 
wind  in  Miss  Follis's  mind,  the  old  lady  rustles  into  the 
hall  and  putting  her  arm  round  Matilde's  waist,  who  is 
standing  pale  and  thoughtful,  remarks  laughingly,  "  Your 
younger  sister  should  have  been  kept  at  school 
eh?" 


COO  MISS   NOBODY   OP   NOWHERE. 

"  Nonsense ! "  cries  the  girl,  growing  very  red.  "  Flossia 
Can't  take  a  hint— that's  all." 

"  Then  give  her  a  fact  that  she  must  accept  before — " 

"  Before  what  ?  "  interjects  Matilde. 

"  Well,  young  girls  just  from  school  are  very  suscepti- 
ble, and  Avonmere  is  handsome.  A  proof  of  your  taste 
Tell  her — in  time/" 

At  her  words,  Matilde,  who  has  grown  red,  cries, 
"  Absurd  ! — She's  only  seen  him  twice,"  and  trying  a 
laugh  she  moves  up  the  stairs,  for  she  doesn't  care  to 
discuss  such  a  matter  with  any  one. 

Mrs.  Marvin  looks  at  her  protegee  as  she  passes  from 
her  sight ;  secure  triumph  on  her  ruddy  face.  She  knows 
she  has  planted,  and  there  will  be  a  reaping  ;  and  so  goes 
merrily  to  dress  for  dinner. 

While  this  has  been  passing  below,  Miss  Flossie  is  pac- 
ing her  room  above.  Striding  about  like  a  tragedy  queen 
she  mutters,  "  Am  I  right  ?  Can  it  be  ? — Heaven  help 
me  to  play  my  role  till  I  discover  ! "  next  cries,  "  Oh, 
for  a  little  clew — something  to  start  my  awakening  mind 
— some  shock — some  lightning  flash — to  save  my  Tillie 
in  time ! " 

This  is  so  wild,  so  disconnected,  so  illogical,  that  she 
seems  almost  a  maniac,  for  she  has  thrown  down  her  hair 
and  tumbled  off  her  dress,  and  her  white  arms  are  in  such 
lovely  but  agitated  gesticulation,  they  would  denote  the 
disorder  of  madness,  did  not  a  noble  courage  beam  in  her 
eyes  when  she  cries  out  her  sister's  name. 

Perhaps  Heaven  has  heard  her  prayer,  for  shortly 
after  this  the  Patriarchs'  ball  brings  a  very  curious  com- 
plication into  this  young  lady's  life,  and  also  a  sensation 
to  Philip  Everett 

That  gentleman  has  devoted  himself  to  business  as  far 
as  he  can  since  the  time  of  seeing  Lord  Avonmere  at  the 
Metropolitan  on  the  night  of  Mr.  Gussie's  "  Razzle  Daz- 
zle." He  has  not  wished  to  see  his  suspect  until  he 
receives  advices  from  New  Mexico  and  England,  fearing 
that  he  may  let  his  temper  betray  him  into  some  indis- 
cretion ;  therefore  he  has  kept  to  Wall  Street,  knowing 
there  was  little  chance  of  encountering  this  English  lord 
on  that  arena  of  speculation. 

On  the  day  of  this  subscription  ball  he  has,  however, 
Deceived  a  letter  from  New  Mexico  that  has  put  him  is, 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  3OI 

<uch  a  fever  that  he  has  determined  to  seek  an  introduc- 
tion to  Avonmere  and  see  if  he  can  indirectly  learn  from 
him  his  version  of  his  niece's  death. 

He  accordingly  proposes  to  accompany  his  sister,  who 
is  going  under  Mrs.  Willis's  chaperonage. 

Arriving  with  his  party  at  Delmonico's,  he  soon  after 
leaves  his  sister,  Grousemoor,  and  Mrs.  Willis  in  the 
crush  of  the  long  red  parlor,  and  stalks  into  the  pretty 
ball-room.  Grousemoor  has  promised  to  present  him  to 
Avonmere,  both  thinking  it  well  that  Everett  should  not 
recall  himself  to  remembrance  by  introducing  himself  as 
Pete  the  cowboy  of  the  Gila  valley. 

Here,  dazzled  by  the  electric  lights  that  give  its  palmy 
and  floral  decorations  a  fairy  green  and  supernatural 
color,  he  stands  under  the  little  balcony,  from  which 
dangle  baskets  of  flowers  and  issues  the  crash  of  Lander's 
orchestra,  gazing  at  the  gorgeous  robes  of  beautiful 
women  and  the  dress  suits  of  conventional  men. 

He  has  hardly  been  on  his  errand  a  minute  when, 
standing  by  an  embellishing  palm  tree  in  the  corner  of 
the  room,  Phil  sees  the  man  he  thinks  a  murderer.  A 
minute  after,  looking  closer,  he  rubs  his  eyes  in  amaze- 
ment and  surprise,  for  seated  under  the  green  branches, 
laughing  and  talking  to  her  supposed  assassin,  is  HIS 

NIECE  AND  VICTIM. 

At  least  so  Everett  thinks. 

At  this  moment,  however,  Mr.  Benson  strolls  up  to  the 
young  lady  and  addresses  her  as  Miss  Follis,  at  which  the 
Bostonian  stares  again,  this  time  perhaps  more  amazed 
than  before. 

Conquering  any  outward  emotion,  he  asks  a  near-by 
acquaintance  who  the  young  lady  is.  "  The  one  just  ris- 
ing up  to  dance." 

"Oh,"  says  his  friend,  "that  is  Miss  Flossie  Follis. 
Just  come  out.  A  great  heiress  and  greater  beauty. 
You'd  better  go  in  for  her.  Most  of  the  men  are.  But 
you  won't  get  a  dance  unless  you  catch  a  turn  or  two  ;n 
the  cotillion,  and  you'll  have  to  play  a  pretty  sharp  game 
to  capture  even  that." 

Phil  listens  to  this  in  a  dazed  way,  his  eyes  following 
the  girl,  whose  brunette  beauty  shines  out  of  a  pure 
white,  drifting,  fleecy,  cloudy,  lace,  tulle,  silvery,  gauzy 
kind  of  a  garment,  which  would  be  called  by  a  modist* 


2O2  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

w  a  creation  ;  "  by  a  poet  "  a  poem  ; "  by  a  musician  "  a 
symphony  ;  "  but  is  called  by  little  Augustus,  who  is  mak- 
ing his  last  night  of  it  as  Lord  Bassington,  though  he 
doesn't  know  it,  "  a  bang-up,  knock-out  kind  of  a  gown." 

Every  movement  of  this  graceful  creature  entrances 
his  eyes  ;  he  has  not  heard  her  voice,  but  knows  it  must 
be  lovely.  She  passes  him  so  close  that  the  perfume  of 
her  dress  floats  round  him  to  intoxicate  him  more.  Her 
arm,  white  and  beautiful  as  one  of  the  lost  ones  of  the 
Venus  of  Milo,  is  bare  to  the  shoulder — her  right  arm  ; 
and  as  his  eyes  rove  over  its  beautiful  curves  he  gets  a 
shock  that  staggers  him  more  than  all  the  rest — so  far. 

On  the  pure  white  flesh  of  Miss  Flossie  Follis,  the 
Colorado  heiress's  rounded  limb,  hardly  noticeable  now,  is 
the  scar  of  a  wound,  and  above  it,  peeping  out  from  sur- 
rounding snow,  a  tiny  mole — the  same  marks  that  were  on 
the  arm  of  little  Florence  Willoughby,  as  she  brought  him 
water  when  wounded  and  fainting  he  fought  the  Apaches 
to  save  her  childish  life  at  the  ford  of  the  Gila. 

Almost  imagining  the  hot  atmosphere  of  the  ball-room 
has  affected  his  mind,  he  staggers  out  into  the  cool  air 
of  the  hall.  This,  as  usual,  is  filled  with  loungers  and 
lookers-on,  men  who  don't  dance  but  who  will  be  very 
ready  and  agile  at  the  supper-table. 

A  moment  after,  thinking  some  stimulant  may  clear 
his  brain,  and  such  not  being  served  at  a  Patriarchs'  ball, 
he  remembers  it  is  not  yet  twelve  o'clock,  and  the  cafl 
will  yet  be  open.  Not  waiting  for  the  elevator  he  de- 
scends by  the  stairs  to  the  ground  floor  to  go  to  that 
portion  of  the  famous  restaurant  devoted  to  bachelor 
entertainment. 

At  the  bottom  of  these  he  is  greeted  with  this  curious 
remark  :  "  Are  you  fired  also  ? " 

Staring  at  his  interrogator,  a  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
red-faced  man,  whose  dress  suit  seems  to  be  too  large  for 
even  his  immense  frame,  whose  shirt-front  is  soft  and 
flabby  from  lack  of  starch,  and  the  weight  of  two  im- 
mense diamond  studs,  Phil  says  in  uncertainty  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ? "  Then  he  ejaculates.  "  Abe 
Follis !  " 

"  Yes,  and  darn  me  if  it  ain't  Pete  1  How  did  you 
make  your  raise  ?  Are  you  an  excrescence  like  myself  !  " 
cries  that  mining  man,  slapping  Everett  on  the  back 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  803 

"  Have  you  been  ejected,  too  ?  "  Then  he  iays  in  a  mel- 
ancholy tone  :  "  I  just  warnted  to  see  my  Tillie  dance 
once.  She's  a  society  hummer  now.  And  blow  me  if  I 
wan't  invited  down-stairs.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  making 
a  row  with  ladies  round,  I'd  have  landed  that  committee 
chap  out  in  the  street  thar.  I  ain't  used  to  being  sat 
down  on  by  dudes  I  " 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

AN  EPISODE  OF   THE  PATRIARCHS*. 

"  I'D  never  have  recognized  you,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
your  voice  and  your  catching  on  to  me,  Pete,"  continues 
old  Follis.  "  You  look  like  the  real  social  article,  you 
do, — but  come  on  and  liquor." 

Everett  here  thinks  he  has  some  questions  he  would 
like  to  ask  his  former  partner,  and  immediately  assents. 
Then  the  two  stroll  into  the  caff,  Mr.  Follis's  enormous 
patent  leathers  creaking  with  newness  at  every  step. 

It  is  near  midnight  now ;  the  room  is  full,  and  under 
its  electric  lights  sit  stock-brokers  discussing  Wall  Street, 
men-about-town  gossiping  of  the  latest  on  dit,  the  last 
social  sensation,  the  new  play,  ballet,  or  opera — all  of 
them  drinking,  most  of  them  smoking  ;  a  few,  who  have 
come  down  from  the  ball  up-stairs  on  the  same  errand 
as  Phil,  discussing  the  ladies  who  are  dancing  above. 

Pressing  into  the  throng,  Everett  soon  gets  hold  of 
Philip,  the  head  waiter,  and  that  official,  with  his  kindly 
smile  complicated  this  evening  by  neuralgia,  of  which  he 
is  a  perennial  victim,  shortly  finds  a  retired  table  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  room  for  the  Bostonian  and  his  companion. 

Here  they  sit  down,  practically  alone  ;  for  the  hum  of 
conversation  from  surrounding  tables  confines  their  voices 
to  their  immediate  vicinity. 

A  moment  later  Phil  is  about  to  speak,  when  Abe 
suddenly  opens  the  conversation,  springing  the  very  topic 
that  Everett  has  on  his  mind. 

|He  says  :  "  Did  you  see  my  two  hummers  up  there  ?" 
pointing  with  his  big  thumb  toward  the  ceiling. 

11  Your  two  hummers  ? " 


104  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

"Yes,  my  darters — Tillie  and   Flossie,  to  be  sure  ! 
answers  Follis,  proudly.     "  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?* 
for  Phil  is  gazing  at  him,  astonished. 

"Only  this,"  says  Everett  slowly  and  impressively. 
*'  In  New  Mexico  you  had  but  one  child,  Tillie  ;  now  the 
Intervening  twelve  years  have  brought  you  another, 
Flossie,  and  she,  like  a  reversed  lolanthe,  can  only  be 
eleven,  but  looks  at  least  eighteen.  I've  heard  the  cli- 
mate of  Colorado  developed  female  loveliness  very  rap- 
idly, but  your  Flossie  is  a  prodigy." 

"  Ain't  she  ?  "  murmurs  Abe,  with  a  guffaw.  Then  he 
says  :  "  Pete,  I'm  going  to  let  you  into  a  family  secret. 
In  Colorado  I  didn't  mind  how  many  knew  it ;  but  here, 
whar  they  talk  of  pedigree  and  blood  and  that  stuft, 
they  might  kind  of  look  down  on  my  Flossie,  and  not 
think  her  as  altitudinus  as  my  Tillie,  if  they  knowed  that 
the  Follis  blood  of  Colorado  didn't  flow  in  her  veins." 

"  She  is  not  your  child  ?  "  says  Phil,  excitedly.  "  Then 
who's  is  she  ? " 

**  Darn  me  if  I  know  !  " 

"  Great  Heavens  !     I'm  right,  then  !  "  gasps  Everett 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  "  whispers  Abe,  in  an  anxious 
roice. 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  "  echoes  Phil.  "  My  knowledge 
is  but  conjecture  till  I  have  your  story." 

"  Will  my  telling  you  do  Flossie  any  harm  ?  "  says  the 
old  gentleman,  nervously.  "  Answer  me,  as  you're  a 
square  man  ! " 

*'  No  ;  perhaps  the  reverse." 

"  Then,  Pete,  I'll  tell  you  !  "  says  Abe.  And  he  gives 
him  the  story  of  the  Baby  mine  in  about  the  same  words 
that  he  had  related  it  to  Mrs.  Marvin  when  that  lady  was 
in  Denver. 

As  he  finishes,  the  young  man  says  impulsively:  "  The 
date  of  the  discovery  of  your  mine  ?  " 

"July  ;th,  1881." 

"  You  are  sure  ?  " 

" Sartin !"  answers  Follis  promptly.  "I've  given  my 
evidence  in  court  on  that  p'int  over  twenty-five  times, 
and  have  affidavitted  it  about  thirty  more  in  fighting 
Baby  jumpers." 

"  Baby  what  ?  "  cries  Phil,  for  the  expression  is  peculiar 
!'  Qh  ! — ah  ! — yes  ! — I  understand  ! " 


MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  2O5 

"  I  don't  mean  sarvant-gal  nurses,"  says  Abe,  with  a 
grin.  "  I've  heard  that  back-number  joke  afore."  Then 
he  grows  very  serious  as  he  sees  Phil  making  notes  of 
what  he  has  said,  and  goes  on  :  "  What  do  your  ques- 
tions mean,  anyhow,  Pete  ?  Out  with  it !  for  anything 
about  my  leetle  Flossie  goes  very  near  my  heart. " 

"  I  can't  tell  you  to-night.  You  shall  know  as  soon  as 
I  discover  anything  definite  !  "  answers  Everett. 

"  Definite  ? "  echoes  Abe.  Then  his  face  grows 
scared,  and  he  gasps  :  "  My  Lord  !  you  don't  think  you'll 
find  parents  for  Flossie — folks  who'll  take  her  away  from 
Rach  and  me  and  break  our  hearts  ? "  A  moment  after, 
his  face  grows  calmer,  and  he  mutters  :  "  Floss  wouldn't 
go,  anyway.  She  ain't  the  gal  to  backslide  on  those  who 
love  her." 

"  Have  no  fear  of  that  !  "  remarks  Phil,  who  sees  the 
old  man's  emotion  and  loves  him  for  it.  "  If  what  I  sus- 
pect is  true,  it  will  only  add  to  Miss  Flossie's  wealth  and 
honor,  and  there  will  be  no  one  to  take  her  from  you 

until "  Here  some  sudden  thought  flies  through  his 

mind  to  make  his  face  red  and  confuse  his  mind,  and  he 
mutters :  "  Till  she  chooses  a  husband." 

"  But  can't  ye  tell  me  a  leetle — something  I  can  hint  to 
the  gal  ?  "  persists  Abe,  whose  curiosity  is  on  fire.  "  Some 
pointer  that  she  can  try  and  remember  ;  something  for 
my  wife  and  I  to  work  out ;  for  no  one  on  this  earth 
would  struggle  for  Flossie's  interests  harder  than  her 
adopted  parents — not  even  Bob." 

This  resurrection  of  Bob,  whom  Mr.  Follis  had  men- 
tioned in  his  tale  of  the  Baby  mine  as  the  child's  friend, 
champion,  and  trustee,  gives  Phil  a  sudden  though  inex- 
plicable pang. 

Putting  aside  his  own  feelings,  however,  he  says  ear- 
nestly :  "  Follis,  as  you  wish  to  aid  Flossie,  not  a  word  of 
this  conversation  to  any  one  !  Promise  me  !  You  knew 
that  I  was  square — in  the  West ;  trust  me — in  the  East." 

"  I  will,  Pete,  I  will !  My  jaws  are  shut ! "  whispers 
Follis,  giving  him  his  great  big  hand. 

"  Very  well,"  answers  Everett,  "  here's  my  card," 
handing  the  miner  a  pasteboard  that  astonishes  him,  for 
he  says  :  "  You  ain't  Pete  no  longer?  " 

"  That  was  my  Western  nickname,"  answers  Phil.  And 
he  gives  him,  in  a  few  words,  the  reason  of  his  metamor 


206  MISS  NOBODY   OP   NOWHEML 

phosis  from  miner  and  cowboy  to  a  director  of  the 
ison,  Topeka  and  Santa  Fe".  But  closing  this  suddenly,  he 
mutters  :  "  There's  too  much  cigar  smoke  here — come 
out  into  the  air,"  and  hurries  Follis  from  his  seat.  For 
little  Gussie  and  one  or  two  of  his  friends  have  come 
down  from  the  ball,  and  sitting  at  the  table  next  them, 
are  punishing  B.  and  S.'s  ;  and  Everett  has  just  caught  a 
remark  from  Lord  Bassington  about  Miss  Tillie  that 
would  not  suit  a  father's  ears. 

Stepping  on  to  Broadway,  Phil  again  repeats  :  "  No 
mention  of  our  conversation  to  any  one  !  " 

"You've  my  word  on  that  !  "  says  Abe  ;  "but  come 
and  have  a  drink  with  the  boys."  And  he  points  to  the 
great  hotel  a  little  farther  down  Broadway  that  is  the 
headquarters  of  Western  millionaires. 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  I've  other  business." 

•'  Good-night,  then.  I  think  I'll  step  over  to  the  Hoff- 
man :  thar's  so  many  mining  men  thar  that  I  feel  as 
natural  as  on  my  own  dump-pile." 

As  Follis  walks  across  the  street,  Phil  hurries  back  to 
the  ball-room,  for  what  he  has  heard  about  Miss  Flossie 
makes  him  very  eager  to  seek  an  immediate  introduction. 

It  is  now  midnight,  and  the  Patriarchs',  generally  a  late 
ball,  is  just  in  full  swing  and  action. 

He  knows  Mrs.  Marvin  is  the  chaperon  for  the  Misses 
Follis,  and,  having  met  her  once  or  twice,  hopes  she  will 
remember  him.  Contriving  to  get  near  her,  he  finds  she 
has  not  forgotten  him. 

Both  her  charges  are  dancing,  so  Phil  and  she  have 
a  pleasant  little  tite-&-t£te. 

This  lady  is  very  gracious  to  the  rich  Bostonian,  whose 
sister  is  going  to  make  the  match  of  the  year  ;  and  a  few 
moments  after,  Miss  Tillie  making  her  appearance,  Mr. 
Everett  has  the  pleasure  of  being  presented  to  this  young 
lady. 

Thinking  perhaps  it  will  not  be  pleasant  for  this  New 
Vork  belle  to  be  reminded  of  her  New  Mexican  dug-out 
childhood,  Phil  says  nothing  of  having  slept  under  the 
same  roof  for  almost  a  year  with  this  piquant  beauty  who 
smiles  unconcernedly  at  him,  and  makes  his  acquaintance 
over  again. 

As  he  speaks,  a  slight  cloud  of  perplexity  runs  over  the 
girl's  mobile  features  for  a  moment ;  but  her  reinem* 


MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  »O) 

brance  is  very  vague — she  was  a  mere  child  at  the  time, 
and  it  is  difficult  to  associate  this  self-contained  man  of 
the  world,  who  is  talking  in  the  easy  strain  of  polite 
society,  with  the  brawny,  unshaved,  rough-and-tumble 
miner  who  swung  a  sledge  over  her  father's  drill  twelve 
years  ago. 

In  answer  to  the  usual  polite  speeches  of  young  man' 
hood  on  such  occasions,  she  says:  "  I  have  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  meeting  your  sister,  Mr.  Everett." 

"  Does  that  help  my  chances  with  you  for  a  dance  this 
evening?"  murmurs  Phil,  gallantly. 

"  It  would,"  she  returns,  "  were  I  not  engaged  for 
everything.  I  am  sorry,  but  if  gentlemen  remain  down- 
stairs too  long  " — she  gives  her  fan  the  direction  of  the 
caft  below  their  feet — "they  should  blame  themselves, 
not  us." 

"  Then  there  is  no  hope,"  remarks  Everett,  rather  dis- 
appointedly, for  Miss  Tillie's  bright  eyes  are  very  pleasant 
to  look  upon. 

"  Ah,  you  are  not  a  ball-room  man,  I  perceive,"  laughs 
the  young  lady. 

"  No  ?  What  makes  you  think  that  ?  "  says  her  listener, 
with  rather  a  shamed-faced  look  on  his  face,  and  not 
altogether  pleased  at  having  been  diagnosed  so  quickly. 

"  Because  then  you  would  know,"  she  replies  lightly, 
"  that  there  is  always  hope  in  the  cotillon." 

Before  Phil  can  answer  this  with  appropriate  gratitude, 
Mrs.  Marvin's  fan  taps  him  on  the  shoulder. 

As  he  turns  she  says  :  "  Mr.  Everett,  let  me  present 
you  to  Miss  Florence  Follis  ; "  and  in  ardent  youth  and 
radiant  beauty,  with  the  flush  of  the  dance  upon  her 
fair  cheeks,  and  the  excited  joy  of  her  first  big  ball  in 
her  brown  eyes,  Flossie  is  speaking  to  him  ;  and  her  voice 
brings  back  to  him  the  past  of  years  ago. 

He  attempts  to  reply  ;  and  the  girl,  giving  him  a  laugh- 
ing pout,  cries  :  "  You're  not  a  good  listener,  Mr.  Ever- 
ett. I  asked  you  if  you  were  Miss  Bessie's  brother,  and 
you  answered  me  that  you  were  a  Bostonian.  What  has 
destroyed  your  ears  ?  " 

"  My  eyes  !  "  ejaculates  the  inspired  Phil,  and  gives  a 
start  at  his  own  audacity. 

"  Your  eyes  ? "  echoes  Miss  Flossie,  wonderingly.  Then 
she  gives  a  big  blush,  and  says  rather  haughtily,  though 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

there  is  a  smile  on  her  face  :  "  Yes,  I  noticed  your  eyes 
had  a  far-away  look  in  them.  Of  what  were  you  think- 
ing?" 

"  I  was  thinking  that  I  would  like  a  dance  with  you  this 
evening,"  returns  Phil,  who  has  made  more  lady-speeches 
in  the  last  two  minutes  than  in  the  whole  of  his  former 
life. 

"  A  dance  with  me  ?  Then  I  don't  wonder  your  expres- 
sion was  a  far-away  one,"  remarks  Miss  Flossie,  rather 
pointedly.  Next,  noting  his  disappointed  glance,  she 
whispers  :  "  I'm  engaged  two  or  three  deep-  this  even- 
ing, but "  And  she  looks  demure  and  undecided. 

"But  what?" 

"  You'll — you'll  not  censure  a  white  prevarication  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not !  " 

"  Of  course,  I  forgot !  I've  heard  you're  a  Wall  Street 
man.  Quick  !  here's  Foxhunter  Reach  coming.  Your 
arm  at  once  !  "  And  the  next  instant,  as  they  move  to 
the  rhythm  of  Lander's  music,  Phil  feels  her  heart  beat 
against  his  as  when,  nine  years  before,  his  shielded  hers 
from  Apache  bullets. 

In  the  next  two  minutes  his  life  has  changed.  Wall 
Street,  and  Atchison  and  Santa  Fe,  stocks  and  bonds, 
accumulated  interest  and  net  earnings,  drift  from  him. 
The  Boston  business  man,  with  her  lithe  waist  encircled 
by  his  arm,  the  perfume  of  her  breath  upon  his  cheek, 
and  her  inspiring  eyes  looking  into  his,  becomes  roman- 
tic, as  a  Romeo. 

A  second  after,  the  waltz  being  over,  romance  is 
bowled  out  by  his  partner's  practical  whisper :  "  Mr. 
Reach  is  looking  for  me ;  see  if  I  meet  him  with  Wall 
Street  depravity  !  "  And  walking  up  to  that  gentleman, 
she  says  severely  :  "  You  were  not  here  during  the  dance 
before  this  one  ;  "  for  she  has  noted  Foxhunter's  recent 
return  to  the  ball-room. 

"  No,  but " 

"  Then  I  hope  you  will  remember  the  next  time  you're 
engaged  to  dance  with  me  !  "  she  returns  in  an  awful 
tone,  her  eyes  very  haughty.  Next  she  mutters  in  a 
broken  and  wounded  voice  :  "  You  may  take  me  to  Mrs. 
Marvin,  Mr.  Everett,"  and  trips  away  on  Phil's  arm. 
leaving  the  robbed  and  browbeaten  Reach  astonished 
and  muttering  explanations. 


MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  209 

"I've  never  done  such  a  thing  before,"  she  says  to  her 
partner,  and  looks  ashamed  ;  then  suddenly  astounds  him 
by  continuing  :  "  I  wonder  why  I  do  it  now  ?  "  and  grow- 
ing red  as  flame,  cries  :  "  Why  don't  you  take  me  to  my 
chaperon  ?  It's  not  good  form  to  keep  a  dtbutante 
from  protecting  wings." 

And  Phil  getting  her  to  Mrs.  Marvin,  she  astounds  him 
more. 

As  he  says  to  her,  "  I  dare  not  ask  you  for  another 
dance,  I  see  conscience  troubles  you  already  about  this 
one " 

"  Pshaw  !  "  she  answers  impulsively.  "  I've  no  con- 
science in  a  ball-room — at  least  not  to-night." 

"  What  ?  "  cries  Phil,  "  I  can  come  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  second  from  this  ;  its — its  supper  !  "  she 
remarks  impulsively  and  illogically  ;  then  mutters  :  "  What 
a  minx  you  must  think  me  !  Au  revoir>  Mr.  Everett !  " 
and  takes  the  arm  of  somebody,  Phil  doesn't  care  who, 
for  he  is  dazed  at  the  girl's  actions. 

Then  vanity  coming  upon  this  man,  who  has  received 
what  many  have  asked  for  and  not  obtained,  he  thinks: 
"  If  Miss  Flossie  is  a  minx,  she's  the  most  charming,  fas- 
cinating, and  lovable  minx  in  existence,"  and  goes  to 
watching  her  movements  with  some  rather  curious  dis- 
coveries. 

First,  he  notes  that  two  or  three  times,  as  her  eyes 
catch  his,  there  seems  to  come  into  them  a  perplexed  look, 
and  once  she  passes  her  hand  over  her  forehead  as  if 
struggling  with  some  mental  problem  that  worries  her 
young  brain. 

Second,  he  perceives  that  whenever  Avonmere  is  near 
her  sister,  which  is  quite  often,  Miss  Flossie's  eyes  flame 
and  blaze  with  some  potent  emotion — perhaps  anger,  cer- 
tainly not  love  ;  though,  curiously  enough,  she  seems  to 
like  the  nobleman's  company,  throwing  herself  in  his  way 
as  much  as  possible,  as  if  striving  to  draw  his  attentions 
from  Miss  Tillie  to  herself. 

This  peculiarity  is  apparently  perceived  by  Miss  Tillie 
also,  who  once  or  twice,  catching  her  sister  at  this  work, 
gives  her  some  most  unsisterly  glances. 

The  lanciers  particularly  emphasizes  Miss  Flossie's 
peculiar  feelings  to  Avonmere. 

She  is  at  the  side  of  the  set  h«  at  the  head.     While 


8 10  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

he  is  going  through  the  figure  with  the  couple  oppo&it^ 
she  gazes  at  him  with  intensity,  perhaps  even  with  hate. 
When  he  turns  to  dance  with  her,  as  she  looks  into  his 
face,  her  eyes  grow  soft,  winning,  even  caressing. 

"  Perhaps  it's  the  effect  of  family  blood,"  thinka 
Phil. 

An  idea  that  Avonmere  himself  has;  for  this  wily  gentle- 
man, having  been  given  a  hint  by  his  view  of  the  canon 
of  the  Baby  mine,  has  soon  pumped  out  of  the  Follis 
family  the  story  of  the  girl's  discovery  and  adoption,  and 
knows  very  well  that  the  pretty  white  hands  he  holds  in 
his  as  he  turns  Miss  Flossie  in  the  lanciers  are  those  of 
his  niece,  who  should,  by  every  chance  of  nature,  have 
been  devoured  by  wild  beasts  or  starved  to  death  long 
years  ago  in  the  far-away  Rocky  Mountains. 

As  Phil  looks  on  this,  a  very  nasty  expression  comes 
into  his  face,  as  he  thinks  of  a  letter  he  has  just  received 
this  day  from  "  Brick  "  Garvey. 

Brief,  characteristic,  and  pointed,  it  states  that  the 
only  telegrams  received  in  Lordsburgh  the  day  Everett 
had  driven  Mrs.  Willoughby  to  her  death  had  given  the 
true  direction  of  the  Indian  raid.  "  That  cuss  was  'cuter 
than  an  Apache  !  "  concludes  Mr.  Garvey  ;  "  he  tied  the 
Britisher  to  destruction  by  his  love  for  his  wife  and  baby. 
You  lure  your  young  lordling,  with  his  Greaser  grin, 
here.  Then  the  boys  will  lynch  him  sure,  and  the  sheriff '11 
be  behind  time,  as  usual  !  " 

Remembering  what  this  man  has  done,  which  makes 
it  difficult  to  keep  his  hands  off  him,  much  less  treat  him 
with  the  courtesy  common  to  the  chance  acquaintanceship 
of  a  ball-room,  Phil  suggests  that,  instead  of  remaining 
with  Mrs.  Marvin  and  Miss  Tillie  and  Avonmere,  they 
occupy  a  table  with  Mrs.  Willis,  his  sister,  and  Grouse- 
moor. 

To  this  Miss  Flossie  assents;  and  finding  Everett's 
party,  they  all  go  down  together  to  the  big  restaurant 
upon  the  ground  floor,  that  is  now  closed  to  general 
custom,  and  in  which  there  is  plenty  of  room  for  every 
one  at  the  small  tables. 

Here  the  younger  Miss  Follis  makes  herself  so  agree- 
able, bright,  and  charming  that  both  the  ladies  and  Grouse- 
moor  fall  in  love  with  her — conquests  which  please  Phil 
greatly,  though  his  watchful  eyes  can't  help  noticing  that 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  211 

at  times  the  girl's  gayety  seems  strained,  not  as  if  she 
were  unhappy,  but  as  if  anxious  and  perplexed. 

Perplexed  when  his  voice  comes  to  her  ear,  for  at  such 
Simes  her  big  eyes  seem  to  have  caught  the  far-away  look 
that  was  in  his  when  first  they  met ;  anxious  when  she 
glances  at  the  near-by  table  at  which  Avonmere  and  her 
sister  are  seated  in  earnest  conversation,  Mrs.  Marvin, 
who  sits  with  them,  apparently  devoting  all  her  senses  to 
the  supper. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  meal  Miss  Bessie,  with  that 
air  of  proprietorship  peculiar  to  approaching  brides,  whis- 
pers :  "  Grousemoor,  take  up  Miss  Florence  with  Mrs. 
Willis  ;  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  Phil." 

"  Delighted  ! "  remarks  that  nobleman,  and  would  do 
as  he  is  bid,  but  Flossie  suddenly  says :  "  If  you  don't 
mind,  I'll  go  over  to  Mrs.  Marvin's  table  until  they  come 
up.  I — I  want  to  see  Matilde  a  second." 

*«  Shall  I  wait  for  you  ?  "  asks  Phil. 

"If  you  have  the  patience,"  returns  the  girl. 

So  Everett  remains  alone  at  his  table,  while  she  hurries 
off  to  the  one  at  which  Lord  Avonmere  and  Miss  Tillie 
are  in  full  tetc-b-titc,  receiving  a  rather  savage  glance 
from  her  sister  for  this  attention. 

Paying  no  heed  to  this,  Flossie  seats  herself  beside 
Avonmere,  and  proceeds  to  make  herself  so  agreeable 
that,  finding  she  can't  get  rid  of  her,  Maltilde  rises  and 
says  :  "  I  suppose  it's  about  time  for  the  cotillon.  Let's 
go  up-stairs,  since  Flossie  is  tired  of  her  big  Bostonian." 

Now,  the  restaurant  being  nearly  empty,  and  Miss 
Tillie's  voice  quite  loud  from  anger  or  jealousy  or  some 
other  unruly  passion,  this  remark  comes  very  clearly  to 
Phil's  ears,  amid  the  pop  of  a  champagne  cork  or  two 
from  distant  quarters  of  the  room. 

His  face  grows  red. 

Glancing  at  him,  Miss  Flossie  divines  that  he  has  heard 
and  suddenly  comes  to  his  side. 

*'  If  you  are  ready,  Mr.  Everett,"  she  says,  with  a 
rather  quiet  voice  ;  "  may  I  have  your  arm  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  answers  Phil ;  and  the  two  leave  the 
tupper-room  just  behind  Avonmere,  Mis3  Follia.  and  Mrs. 
Marvin. 

As  they  walk  very  slowly,  and  the  others  quite  fast, 
they  are  soon  alone;  and  coming  up  the  stairs.  Miss 


•  19  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

Flossie,  growing  red  in  the  face,  remarks  :  "  What  must 
you  think  of  me  ?  You  have  met  me  only  this  evening, 
and  I  first  cheat  Mr.  Reach  out  of  his  dance,  and  next  am 

equally  rude  to  you — but — but "  She  hesitates  and 

seems  so  embarrassed  .that  Everett  assists  her. 

"  But  you  have  some  reason  for  this  last  ? "  he  ven- 
tures. 

"  Yes,  and  a  very  good  one,"  says  the  girl ;  "  though 
not  the  one  my  sister  so  kindly  attributed  to  me.'* 

"  You  are  quite  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  Come  in  to  the  german  and  I'll  prove  it  to  you,"  is 
her  answer,  as  she  is  pounced  upon  by  her  partner  for  this 
dance. 

Phil,  however,  has  faith  enough  in  her  words  to  go  into 
the  ball-room,  where,  to  his  delight,  Miss  Flossie  takes 
him  out  so  continuously  that  he  becomes  the  envy  of  half 
the  men  in  the  room,  for  the  younger  Miss  Follis's  beauty 
and  fortune  have  made  her  quite  a  belle  even  in  her  first 
week  of  metropolitan  society. 

"  It  carn't  be  his  darncing  ? "  lisps  Tommy  Remson. 

"  It's  because  his  sister's  going  to  marry  a  lord.  After 
my  affair  with  her  sister,  Miss  Flossie  can't  give  me  a 
favor,  and  so  takes  the — awh — next  best  article,"  suggests 
little  Gussie. 

"  I  think  I've  hit  his  point,"  says  the  more  practical 
Benson.  "  It's  his  grip  !  Look  how  he  squeezes  her. 
Keep  it  to  yourselves,  or  all  the  other  girls  in  the  room'll 
be  after  him  also." 

Whereupon  these  three  young  gentlemen,  who  have 
been  looking  at  Everett's  success  with  Miss  Flossie,  and 
do  not  like  it,  burst  into  a  derisive  giggle. 

They  are  not  entirely  wrong,  however.  Phil  does  not 
waltz  so  well  as  these  young  gentlemen  who  make  a  prac- 
tice of  it  night  after  night,  but  he  holds  Flossie  Follis  as 
he  would  hold  no  other  woman  in  the  dance  or  out  of  it. 
His  arm  circles  her  dainty  waist  as  if  he  loved  her;  for  the 
joy  of  adoring  has  got  into  his  head,  and  the  hope  of  re- 
ciprocity is  in  his  eyes  as  his  meet  those  of  this  girl  float- 
ing with  him  to  the  music  of  Lander,  which  seems  to  Phil 
as  that  of  the  spheres.  The  melody  stimulates  his  im- 
agination ;  the  ball-room  becomes  the  hot  mesa  of  Ari- 
zona ;  he  is  carrying  a  little  girl  who  says  :  "  Kiss  me,  deal 
Mr.  Peter,"  as  she  rides  in  his  arms  ;  the  thump  of  a  big 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  213 

drum  in  the  balcony  is  the  stroke  of  Possum's  hoofs  on 
the  trail. 

From  this  he  awakes  with  a  start. 

In  his  mad  career,  the  thought  of  pursuing  Apaches 
having  made  him  dance  very  fast,  he  has  nearly  floored 
an  unfortunate  colliding  couple. 

"  You  waltz  enthusiastically,"  says  his  inspiration, 
with  a  panting  smile,  for  the  pace  has  been  a  very  hot 
one. 

"  Yes,  like  a  cowboy  !  "  is  the  smothered  anathema  of 
one  of  the  run-against.  At  this  a  very  extraordinary  look 
comes  into  Miss  Flossie's  face,  and  she  dances  no  more 
with  Phil  Everett. 

But  it  is  so  near  the  close  of  the  ball  that  he  does  not 
notice  this,  and  goes  home,  very  excited  and  very  happy, 
and  greatly  in  love  ;  not  with  the  calculating  passion  of  a 
AVall  Street  man,  but  with  the  ardor  of  a  cowboy,  or  a  foot- 
ball rusher,  or  a  Romeo. 

In  proof  of  this,  he  is  no  sooner  at  the  Brevoort  than 
he  marches  into  Grousemoor's  rooms.  That  gentleman, 
having  left  Delmonico's  in  advance  of  Phil,  he  finds 
already  in  bed. 

"  By  Jove  !  what's  the  row  ?  "  mutters  the  lord,  aston- 
ished at  this  intrusion. 

"  Do  you  know  whom  I've  been  dancing  with  to-night?" 
asks  Everett. 

"  That's  not  hard  guessing,"  replies  the  other,  with  a 
grin  ;  "  I  only  saw  one,  pretty  little  Miss  Flossie  Fol- 
lis." 

"  Not  Miss  Flossie  Follis,"  cries  Phil,  "  but  Florence 
Beatrice  Stella  Willoughby,  Lady  Avonmere,  baroness  by 
her  own  right  in  the  peerage  of  England  !  " 

This  astounding  announcement  hardly  produces  the 
expected  effect.  Grousemoor  cries  out  :  "Go  to  bed, 
Phil.  You  are  drunk  !  " 

"  Yes,  drunk  with  astonishment — joy — love  ! — but  not 
drunk  with  wine  !  "  answers  the  American.  "  You  know 
I  thought  Avonmere  had  murdered  the  child.  He  at- 
tempted  it  by  one  of  his  cursed  '  hand  of  God  '  acci- 
dents, but  she  escaped,  and  I'll  prove  it  to  you  !  " 
Whereupon  he  sits  down  by  his  friend's  bedside,  and 
tells  him  all  he  has  learned  from  Abe  Follis  of  the  finding 
of  his  adopted  daughter.  Concluding,  he  says :  "  Thr 


2i4  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

child  was  found  on  July  7th,  1881.  Arthur  Willoughbj 
and  his  niece  stopped  at  Pueblo,  on  their  way  from 
New  Mexico,  on  June  i4th  of  the  same  year.  In  three 
weeks  he  could  have  carried  the  child  to  the  place  he 
deserted  her.  I  recognize  on  her  arm  the  wound  of  the 
Apache.  I  am  as  sure  that  girl  I  danced  with  to-night 
te  Florence,  Lady  Avonmere,  as  that  I  was  once  Pete  the, 
cowboy,  who  saved  her  life  ! " 

"  That  being  the  case,"  says  Grousemoor  meditatively, 
"  do  you  think  Arthur  Willoughby,  the  man  called  Lord 
Avonmere,  knows  it  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  that  ?  K 

"  Because,  if  he  does,"  returns  the  Scotchman,  with  a 
very  serious  face,  "  don't  you  think  he  may  be  trying 
some  of  his  '  hand  of  God '  accidents  upon  his  newly 
discovered  niece  ?  " 

"  She's  safe  enough  for  the  present,"  answers  Phil. 
"  Don't  you  suppose  I've  considered  that  ?  " 

"Why?" 

"  Because  Avonmere,  being  a  cunning  scoundrel,  will 
attempt  no  injury  to  Miss  Flossie  Follis  so  long  as  she 
doesn't  know  he  has  her  fortune  and  her  title." 

"  You  are  sure  she  does  not  guess  ? " 

"  Certainly  ! " 

"  But  you  propose  to  show  her  who  she  is  ?  " 

"  As  soon  as  I  have  the  proofs — proofs  that  will  destroy 
any  danger  from  him." 

"  How  ? " 

"  By  making  him  an  outcast  and  a  criminal." 

"  When  do  you  commence  this  business  ? " 

"Now!" 

'*  You  are  a  rapid  creature  !  " 

"  I'm  an  American  business  man,  and  time  means  sue- 
cess  i  "  cries  Phil. 

And  he  sends  a  long  cablegram  to  the  London  soli 
citor  this  very  night,  that  makes  that  lawyer  open  his 
eyes  and  cry  :  *  My  great  case  has  come  to  me  at  last  ! ' 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHRBJk 


CHAPTER 

THE  BOGUS  BASSINGTOW. 

WHILE  this  has  been  going  on,  another  interview,  much 
more  enthusiastic,  theatrical,  and  savage,  has  been  taking 
place  between  Miss  Tillie  and  Miss  Flossie. 

The  two  girls  had  arrived  at  the  Follis  mansion  on  ap- 
parently good  terms,  though  Mrs.  Marvin  and  Avonmere, 
who  had  accompanied  them  home,  had  done  most  of  the 
talking  in  the  carriage.  The  few  remarks  of  Miss  Flossie 
to  Avonmere,  however,  had  been  of  a  kind  to  put  her 
sister  upon  her  mettle,  and  had  caused  Mrs.  Marvin  to 
repeat  her  warning  to  Matilde  to  cut  short  any  hope  upon 
the  debutante's  part  of  getting  their  escort's  coronet  upon 
her  brow.  This  she  had  whispered  to  Tillie  after  they 
had  come  into  the  hall  and  while  Avonmere  was  mak- 
ing his  adieux  to  her  younger  sister. 

Therefore,  after  kissing  Flossie  good-night,  Miss  Tillie, 
some  recollection  of  the  girl's  tender  manner  to  Avon- 
mere  coming  very  vividly  to  her  in  the  solitude  of  her  own 
chamber  as  she  disrobes,  thinks  she  might  as  well  at  once 
define  to  her  sister  her  status  with  Lord  Avonmere.  She 
mutters  :  "  I'll  stop  Flossie's  making  a  fool  of  herself 
right  now  !  "  and,  throwing  on  a  pretty  robe  de  chambre, 
walks  through  the  dimly-lighted  corridor  to  her  sister's 
suite  of  apartments,  to  find  that  young  lady  just  dismiss- 
ing her  maid. 

"  I  thought  I  would  just  run  in,  Floss,  dear,"  says  the 
girl,  affecting  an  ambiguous  smile,  "and  ask  my  little 
sister  how  she  enjoyed  her  first  big  ball  ?  " 

"  Very  well  ;  sit  down  by  the  fire,  darling,  and  I  will 
give  you  rny  ideas  on  the  Patriarchs',*'  remarks  the  young 
lady  addressed,  toasting  five  pretty  little  toes  in  front  of 
the  blaze.  Then  she  says  suddenly  :  "  What  did  you 
think  of  Mr.  Everett  ?  " 

"  Not  much  about  him  one  way  or  the  other."  answers 
Miss  Tillie,  "  though  he  reminded  me  of  somebody  I  had 
seen  ?ome  where  else." 

"  Did  he  ?  "  cries  Flossie  ;  "  he  affected  mo  in  th« 
same  way  !  "  And  the  far-away  expression  again  come* 
into  the  girl's  eyes. 


tit  MISS  NOBODY   OP    NOWHERE. 

"  After  that,"  remarks  Miss  Tillie,  her  face  growing 
serious,  "  I  saw  my  sister  was  interested  in  him  ;  con 
sequently,  did  not  interfere."  Then  she  says  suddenly, 
and  perhaps  bitterly  :  "  Werejw/  equally  generous?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  answers  Flossie,  growing  red. 

"  Oh,  do  not  pretend  that  you  don't  understand  ! " 
cries  Tillie.  "  Don't  add  deceit  to  your  other  transgres- 
sions against  me  to-night." 

"  Transgressions  against  you  ?  " 

"  Did  /  poach  on  your  Boston  business  man  with  a  big 
scar  on  his  cheek  ?  He  got  it  at  football,  I  presume,  at 
which  they  say  he  was  a  mighty  Yale  kicker  ;  his  feet  up- 
hold his  reputation,"  remarks  Matilde,  severely,  con- 
templating her  own  little  slipper,  that  is  extended  to 
the  warming  blaze. 

"  Poach  !  "  cries  Flossie.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  My 
Boston  business  man  ?  Absurd  ! — I — !  "  and  a  pretty 
little  blush  contradicts  her  assertion. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  wrong  in  my  insinuation,"  sneers  Til- 
lie,  "  considering  that  you  devoted  at  least  one-half  your 
smiles  to  Arthur." 

"Arthur!" 

"  Yes,  Arthur,  the  man  I  am  about  to  marry,"  cries  the 
other,  who,  having  come  to  the  gist  of  her  remarks,  has 
warmed  up  to  her  subject — "  Arthur,  Lord  Avonmere." 

"  Impossible  ! "  As  this  comes  from  Flossie's  lips 
there  is  a  look  of  horror  in  her  eyes. 

"  Impossible  !  Why  impossible  ?  Has  your  beauty 
lured  him  from  me?"  gasps  Matilde,  growing  pale  at 
the  thought,  which  is  a  very  natural  one,  for  as  Florence 
Follis  stands,  her  bright  eyes  flashing  indignation,  her 
noble  figure  posed  under  its  white,  clinging  night-draper- 
ies, like  that  of  a  Greek  goddess,  she  might  cause  any 
rival  to  fear  the  wondrous  power  of  her  loveliness. 

"  You  are  going  to  marry  him  ?  "  says  Flossie,  in  so 
broken  a  voice  it  gives  her  opponent  courage. 

"  Yes,"  cries  Matilde.  And  seeing  on  her  sister's 
countenance  what  she  thinks  is  jealousy  and  despair,  her 
voice  becomes  bitter  as  she  goes  on :  "  By  this  ring  I 
am  !  "  And  flaunts  the  diamond  Avonmere  has  given 
her  in  Flossie's  face,  with  a  mocking  laugh. 

"  Misery  !  "  gasps  the  girl,  astonishment  and  horror  in 
%er  eyes — astonishment  because  she  has  never  yet  seen 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  2IJ 

this  token  upon  Matilde's  finger,  Avonmere  having  sug- 
gested that  it  would  be  well  she  did  not  announce  the 
engagement  to  her  family  for  a  few  days  after  the  ter- 
mination of  the  Van  Beekman  affair  ;  horror  for  some 
unknown  reason  which  Tillie  mistakes. 

"  Misery  ? "  she  echoes.  "  Yes,  misery  for  you,  and 
you  deserve  it.  How  dare  you  ?  " 

"Dare— what?" 

"  Dare  to  love  the  man  I  love  !  " 

"  Love  him  ?  "  mutters  Florence,  with  a  shudder. 

"  Yes,  love  him  !  "  cries  Matilde,  who  notes  her  sister'i 
appearance  and  thinks  it  is  despair.  And  so  it  is — for 
HER.  "  You  can't  pretend  in  this  case  it  is  Bob's  cause 
you  are  fighting,  as  you  did  when  you  attacked  me  for 
little  Gussie."  Then,  being  very  angry  with  other  people 
besides  Flossie,  this  erratic  young  lady  sneers  :  "  If  Bob 
loved  me — he'd — he'd  come  here  and  fight  his  own 
battle."  And  rage  or  some  other  emotion  brings  tears  to 
Tillie's  eyes. 

To  this  her  sister  cries,  "  Hush ! "  in  an  awful  tone. 
u  Don't  dare  to  reproach  him  ! " 

"  And  why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  " — here  Flossie's  cheeks  grow  pale  and  her 
*oice  becomes  low,  and  she  whispers  :  "  because  he  has 
been  fighting  for  your  fortune." 

"  Fighting  for  my  fortune  ?  Pough  !  So  was  Gussie," 
echoes  Matilde,  with  a  nasty  laugh. 

"  Fighting  to  save  your  fortune  !  ** 

«  Ah ! " 

**  Fighting  the  fire  in  the  mine." 

" Good  heavens  !  " 

"  For  a  week  the  Baby  mine  has  been  on  fire.  Father 
don't  know  it,  nor  should  I,  but  I  wrote  Bob  to  come  here 
as  he  valued  his  happiness,  and  he  replied  that  the  eight- 
hundred-foot  level  was  on  fire,  and  he  could  not  leave 
his  duty.  He  telegraphed  me  to-day  he  had  it  undei 
control.  So  he  has  saved  your  fortune.  Has  he  lost 
you,  my  sister,  in  doing  it  ?  " 

To  this  Matilde  does  not  answer,  though  her  lips 
tremble  ;  there  is  a  blush  upon  her  face,  her  eyes  have  a 
softer  look  in  them,  and  perhaps  Bob's  battle  might  be 
won  now,  did  not  his  advocate  make  a  fearful  error. 

Youth  seldom  knows  when  to  stop,  and  Miss  Eighteen 


01 8  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

goes  wildly  on  :  "  Can  you  hesitate — is  Avonmere  worth? 
of  you  ? " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asks  Matilde,  in  an  undecided  voice. 

"  Does  not  rumor  say  of  him  that  he  will  marry  no  one 
save  a  rich  woman  for  her  fortune  ? " 

"  Ah  !  "  Matilde  has  risen,  her  cheeks  flaming  at  the 
insinuation  against  her  beauty  and  her  charms. 

"  Does  not  that  horrible  old  Marvin  woman  play  his 
game  for  him  ?  Did  she  not  come  and  get  money  from 
me  to  make  that  little  Gussie  think  himself  a  lord,  and, 
crazy  with  pride  and  caddishness,  discard  you,  an  heiress, 
that  Avonmere  might  seize  upon  you  and  your  fortune 
through  your  chagrin  at  being  jilted  and  your  fear  of 
being  the  jeer  of  New  York  society  ?  " 

"  Stop  !  you  are  crazy  yourself,"  screams  Tillie,  who 
has  listened  with  astonished,  staring  eyes  to  this  address, 
which  would  astound  any  one  who  only  saw  the  surface  of 
the  situation.  But,  true  or  false,  every  word  is  a  tortur- 
ing wound  to  her  self-love,  vanity,  and  pride,  all  of  which 
are  pretty  well  developed  in  this  petted  beauty  and  belle. 

"  I  won't  stop,  and  I'm  not  crazy  ! "  returns  Miss  Flos- 
sie, who  is  growing  very  earnest  in  her  work.  "  I've 
heard  enough  from  Mrs.  Marvin  to  join  with  one  expres- 
sion I  caught  from  Avonmere 's  lips  to-night  to  know  I've 
guessed  right.  We  were  dancing  together " 

"  Yes,  too  often !  " 

"  Bassington,  or  Van  Beekman,  or  whatever  you  want 
to  call  him,  bumped  against  us,"  continues  the  girl,  un- 
heeding the  interruption.  "  Avonmere  muttered  under 
his  breath,  '  The  miserable  pauper ! '  He  didn't  think 
I  heard  it,  but  I  did,  and  I  know  it  means  what  I've  told 
you.  I  know  other  things,  also " 

"  What  other  things  ?  " 

"  What  I  can't  tell  you  !  But  give  him  up  before  it  is 
too  late.  Some  day  you'll  bless  me  for  this.  Let  me 
take  his  ring  and  throw  it  in  his  face.  He  marries  you 
for  your  money.  He  is  unworthy  of  you  !  "  And  with 
this  impassioned  though  tactless  speech,  Flossie  would 
pluck  Avonmere's  token  from  her  sister's  hand. 

But  that  young  lady,  suffering  from  wounded  vanity 
and  pride,  is  in  a  most  ungracious  mood. 

"  Keep  your  touch  off  my  engagement-ring  !  "  she  cries. 
"  You  wish  it  for  your  own  finger.  You  want  to  be  a 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  919 

peeress  of  England  yourself,  you  plotter  I "    And   she 
flashes  the  diamond  in  her  sister's  eyes. 

At  this  a  red  spot  comes  on  each  of  Florence's  cheeks, 
and  her  eyes  begin  to  glisten  like  the  diamond  held  be- 
fore them  ;  but  forcing  herself  to  humility,  she  mutters  : 
"  He  is  unworthy  any  woman's  love  !  " 

"  Except  yours  !  "  screams  Matilde.  "  You,  who  malign 
him  behind  his  back — to  me,  his  sweetheart.  You  hear 
that  ?  The  girl  he  loves,  the  girl  who  loves  him  !  " 

"  A-ah  1 "  This  is  a  moan  of  anguish,  perhaps  de- 
spair, which  goads  Matilde  to  madness. 

She  cries :  "  You  coward,  to  slander  in  secret !    You — " 

"  Don't  you  dare  to  call  me  that !  "  cries  Flossie  in  a 
louder  tone.  "  Don't  make  me  forget  I  am  your  sister  ! " 
And  with  glaring  eyes  the  two  white-robed  beauties  con- 
front each  other. 

But  now,  to  their  dismay,  another  and  a  stronger  voice 
dominates  the  apartment.  It  says  :  "  Gals,  ain't  yer  for- 
got that,  both  of  ye  ?  "  And  striding  between  them  comes 
another  white-robed  figure,  more  gaunt,  not  so  lovely, 
but  perchance  much  more  potent  as  regards  grip  and 
fighting  power  in  a  scrimmage. 

It  is  the  sleepless  Rach. 

A  door  that  connects  Miss  Flossie's  bed  room  with  her 
own  has  been  left  ajar,  and  the  frontier  mother,  tossing 
sleeplessly  on  her  bed  awaiting  the  coming  of  the  absent 
Abe,  who  comes  not,  has  heard  the  sound  of  conflict. 

"  Floss,  keep  quiet  !  Till,  shut  up !  Don't  yer  know 
your  posish  ?  Bean't  you  ladies  ? "  she  cries  in  a  tone 
that  makes  both  the  girls  pause  and  gaze  upon  her  in  awe 
and  silence  as  she  towers  over  them,  the  embodiment  of 
angry  justice. 

She  has  been  worrying  over  the  absence  of  Abe,  and 
would  probably  worry  more  did  she  know  that  gentleman 
was  still  in  social  confab  at  the  Hoffman  House,  arrang 
ing  with  Hank  Morris,  of  the  "  Bully  Boy,"  Bill  Cham- 
bers,  of  the  "  Boa  Constrictor,"  and  Charley  Daily,  of 
the  "  Last  Blast,"  for  a  joint  box  at  the  coming  Cerclt 
<F Harmonic  ball — a  wild,  hilarious,  can-can  revel  which  is 
much  loved  by  the  wicked  Western  mining  man  ;  where 
those  of  them  who  are  in  New  York  in  February  can  be 
counted  on  to  make  the  wine  flow  and  the  ladies  dance. 

And  to  this  annoyance  is  now  added  a  dispute  by  hei 


•te  MISS  NOBODY    OF   NOWHZKE. 

daughters  which  is  the  last  straw  upon  Rachel  Foflis's 
back. 

"  What  are  you  twos  fighting  about  ?  "  she  says  shortly. 
Getting  no  reply  to  this,  she  goes  on  :  "  Why  ain't  you  in 
your  own  room,  Tillie  ?  "  then  cries  suddenly  :  "  Did 
you  come  in  here  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  raise 
a  rumpus  with  Floss?"  and  takes  a  step  towards  the 
young  lady  addressed  with  such  a  '  fightin*  Injun '  look 
in  her  eyes  that  Tillie  suddenly  utters  an  affrighted 
"  Don't !  "  and  takes  refuge  behind  a  chair. 

But  Florence,  standing  near,  says  quietly :  "  She  did 
not,  mother  ;  she  came  in  to  bid  me  good-night,  and " 

"  And  you  begun  it  ?  "  remarks  Rach  in  an  awful  voice, 
while  her  long  gaunt  hand  seizes  Flossie's  shapely  arm. 

"  No,  she  didn't ;  I  did.  Don't  you  touch  Floss,  ma  !  " 
cries  Tillie,  desperately. 

"Lord  bless  me  if  you  ain't  jist  the  same  as  if  you 
were  knee-high  ag'in !  You  were  always  trying  to  save 
one  another  in  them  days  before  we  got  so  awful  rich 
that  there  ain't  no  comfort  in  life,"  mutters  Rachel,  and 
having  Flossie  nearest  to  her  hand,  she  suddenly  falls  to 
kissing  and  sobbing  over  this  young  lady,  till  Matilde, 
running  to  her,  gets  a  second  edition  of  the  same. 

Then,  stifling  down  a  sniff,  Mrs.  Follis  says :  "  Now, 
darters,  tell  me  plain  and  short  what's  the  matter.  I  want 
to  do  justice  between  you." 

"  You  can  do  what  you  like  to  me,"  says  Flossie  in  a 
broken  voice,  "only  don't  let  Tillie  marry  that — that 
Avonmere." 

"  Was  that  the  row  ?  Are  you  cottoning  to  that  gent  ?  " 
asks  Rach. 

"  Yes,"  says  Matilde  shortly. 

"  Well,  Floss,  what  have  you  got  to  say  ag'in  him  ?  * 
continues  the  matron. 

"  Nothing  now— that  I  can  tell  you  or  any  one," 
returns  the  younger  girl  in  a  troubled  tone. 

"  Oh !  yer  ain't  got  nothin'  ag'in  him  t  Well,  I 
shouldn't  think  you  hadn't,"  cries  her  mother,  for  Avon- 
mere,  having  made  himself  particularly  pleasant  in  the 
last  few  days  to  Mrs.  Follis,  has  quite  won  her  open 
and  trustful  heart.  Then  she  goes  on,  the  fighting  look 
coming  into  her  eyes  :  "  Seems  to  me  you  don't  want  Till 
tp  many  nobody.  You  came  up  here  to  raise  a  rumput 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  321 

about  that  other  little  sniff,  Gussie.  Oh,  don't  ye  attempt 
to  deny  it ;  I  know  mostly  what  happens  in  my  house  !  " 
For  at  the  mention  of  Van  Beekman,  Florence  has  ap- 
peared about  to  speak.  "  You  came  and  jumped  on  to 
him,  and  now  you're  interfering  with  Tillie's  new  beau. 
Don't  you  want  her  to  get  married  to  no  one  ? " 

" None  except  Bob"  sneers  Matilde,  who  has  become 
indignant  again  at  this  recital  of  her  wrongs. 

"  Oh,  Bob's  the  caucus  nominee,  is  he  ?  "  shouts  Mrs. 
Follis  in  a  more  awful  tone  than  ever.  "  It's  Bob  she's 
fightin'  for  ! — Bob,  who  daren't  come  and  stand  up  for 
himself  ! "  Then  she  turns  on  Flossie  and  whispers  :  "  If 
you  let  an  envious  spirit  conquer  you,  and  I  hear  of  your 
making  a  rumpus  about  Tillie's  new  young  man,  I'll 
treat  you  as  if  you  were  knee-high,  my  darter — don't 
forget  that  ! " 

With  this  she  stalks  to  the  door,  but  hearing  a  little 
giggle  from  Matilde  at  her  sister's  discomfiture,  for  at  this 
threat  Flossie's  cheeks  have  grown  red  with  blushes  and 
her  eyes  suffused  with  tears,  Rach  turns  round  and  says: 
"  And  you,  Till,  if  you  come  in  here  and  rile  Floss  up 
'cause  you've  got  a  fellah  and  she  ain't  got  none,  I'll  do 
jist  the  same  to  you,  miss.  Don't  you  forget  that, 
neither !  " 

And  she  leaves  botb  young  ladies  gazing  at  each  other 
in  dismay. 

They  know  that  Rachel  Follis  is  a  woman  of  her  word, 
and  have  a  great  respect  for  her  authority,  which  she  has 
enforced  upon  them  as  children,  after  the  manner  of  King 
Solomon,  for  she  is  a  woman  who  reads  the  Scriptures, 
and,  believing  them  the  living  truth,  acts  upon  their  ad- 
vice. 

A  moment  after  the  culprits  give  a  faint  scream,  there 
being  a  sound  of  wild  commotion  down-stairs ;  but  Rach 
puts  her  head  into  the  room  and  says  :  "  You  stay  quiet 
here,  pets — I  think  it's  burglars;  I'm  going  down  to  settle 
'em." 

"  Ma,  don't  go  !  "  cry  both  young  ladies  in  a  tremor, 
another  crash  and  sound  of  breakage  coming  from  below. 

"  Hush  !  Obey  me  !  "  says  Rach.  "  Don't  be  skeared, 
no  harm  shall  come  to  my  precious  ones !  " 

And  peeping  out  of  their  room,  the  two  trembling 
civilized  creatures  see  the  gaunt  representative  of  the  Faf 


299  MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERt. 

West  stride  down-stairs  with  a  murderous  six-shooter  in 
her  hand  as  quietly  as  if  she  were  going  to  her  breakfast 

A  moment  after  they  hear  her  cry  :  "  Why,  Abe — if  if 
ain't  you  !  " 

"  Yes,"  answers  the  head  of  the  house  ;  "  I  stumbled 
over  some  of  your  break -bracks.  The  servants  shift  'em 
about  like  Missouri  River  sand-bars.  Ye  never  knows 
when  you  run  ag'in  'em." 

And  then  to  the  listening  girls  comes  Rachel's  voice 
saying  :  "  Thank  God,  you're  home  safe.  Abe,  I  was 
afeered  you'd  be  captured  by  bunco  men  !  "  followed  by 
a  shower  of  tender  backwoods  kisses  upon  the  returned 
one. 

For,  like  so  many  of  us,  this  frontier  matron  most 
dreads  the  unfamiliar.  She  would  trust  her  mate  to  the 
dangers  of  the  wilderness  with  fortitude  and  equanimity, 
but  trembles  for  the  guileless  Abraham  amid  the  pitfalls 
of  this  great  city. 

Listening  to  this,  Flossie  whispers  to  her  sister:  "  Isn't 
ma  tender  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  determined,"  mutters  Tillie.  And  this  bring- 
ing the  remembrance  of  Rach's  threat  back  to  them,  the 
two  look  very  serious. 

*'  I  shall  say  no  more  about  Avonmere,"  remarks  the 
younger,  "  but,  Tillie,  as  I  love  you  and  you  love  me,  for 
heaven's  sake  don't  marry  him  !  " 

"  And  why  not  ?     Give  me  a  reason." 

"  I — I  cannot. " 

"  Yes,  you  can,  you're  jealous " 

But  here  their  mother  puts  her  head  in  the  room  and 
says  :  "  What'll  become  of  your  beauty,  my  darlings,  if 
you  stand  gossiping  till  morning !  "  Then,  catching 
something  in  the  faces  of  her  loved  ones  that  she  does  not 
like,  she  cries  :  "  Till,  go  to  your  own  room  !  Floss,  to 
bed  at  once  !  And  if  I  hear  another  word  out  of  either 
of  your  lips  to-night,  I'll  settle  ye  like  I  did  when  ye  tied 
fire-crackers  to  our  Chinese  cook's  tail  in  Aspen  !  " 

A  recollection  that  is  so  awful  that  Matilde  flies  to  her 
chamber,  and  Florence  to  her  couch  without  a  syllable. 

Now  thia  conversation  being  partially  reported  the  fol- 
lowing morning  by  Tillie  to  Mrs.  Marvin,  it  reaches  tha 
ears  of  Avonmere  and  sets  that  astute  gentleman  to 
thinking,  which,  in  the  course  of  time,  produces  som« 


MISS    NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE,  2*3 

unpleasant  results  for  the  young  lady  both  Mrs.  Marvin 
and  himself  now  regard  as  an  enemy — />.,  Miss  Flossie 
Follis. 

But  the  day  after  the  Patriarchs  also  brings  about  a 
wof ul  disaster  to  Augustus  Lord  Basstngton,  which,  in  its 
evolution,  raises  an  insignificant  but  vindictive  adversary 
to  any  and  all  of  Avonmere's  plans. 

This  denouement  has  been  approaching  in  the  gradua 
course  of  events,  and  is  now  about  due. 

In  one  of  the  morning  papers  issued  after  the  Patri* 
archs  appears  the  following  squib  : 


"MYSTERIOUS  DISAPPEARANCE  ON    WALL   STREET. 

"  The  suspicious  occurrences  connected  with  the  opening  of  a  so- 
called  law  office  bearing  the  name  and  putting  out  the  sign  of 
'  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co.,  Attorneys  and  Counsellors  at  Law/  has 
created  some  curiosity  and  excitement  at  No.  61  Wall  Street. 

"  They  engaged  the  office  for  a  month,  paying  a  somewhat  extra 
rental  on  account  of  the  shortness  of  their  occupation  ;  but  stated 
that  if  the  location  pleased  them  they  would  renew  the  lease  for  a 
longer  period. 

"  This  mysterious  firm  had  only  been  in  business  two  or  three  days 
when  they  suddenly  disappeared,  clerks,  attorneys,  and  all  ;  since 
which  time  the  office  has  been  locked  up. 

41  This  morning  the  key  was  surreptitiously  returned  to  the  Janitor, 
who  entered  the  offices,  to  find  them  vacant.  The  furniture  and  be- 
longings, which  had  been  quite  elaborate,  had  all  mysteriously  dis- 
appeared. 

"  During  their  two  or  three  days  of  active  business,  Stillman,  Myth 
&  Co.  had  but  few  callers  and  no  mail. 

"  These  facts  were  elicited  by  one  of  our  ever-vigilant  reporters 
from  .he  janitor,  who  states  that  in  his  opinion  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co. 
were  in  the  '  GREEN-GOODS'  business." 

This  article  coming  to  the  eyes  of  Lord  Bassington  as 
he  partakes  of  his  breakfast  on  the  morning  after  the 
Patriarchs'  function,  produces  great  loss  of  appetite  and 
vexation  of  spirit. 

He  bolts  into  Avonmere's  apartments  before  that 
gentleman  is  ready  to  receive  company,  and  cries  out 


994  MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE. 

u  Look  at  that,"  shoving  the  paper  under  the  nose  of 
his  brother  peer. 

As  he  reads,  a  curious  expression  ripples  Avonmere's 
face,  but  a  moment  after  he  says  :  "  Pough !  You  know 
Stillman,  Myth  &  Co.  were  not  in  the  '  green-goods ' 
business,  Bassington  !  Did  they  take  any  money  from 
you  ?  " 

"  No,  but,  by  George,  they've  got  my  draft  on  London 
for  ten  thousand  pounds,"  screams  his  lordship.  "  They 
may  do  me  out  of  that.  What  would  you  advise  ?  By 
Jove,  the  beggars  may  rob  me  of  ten  thousand  pounds. 
Even  noblemen  with  sixty  thousand  a  year  can't  afford 
to  lose  that,  don't  yer  know." 

On  hearing  this,  Avonmere,  who  is  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  suddenly  bolts  into  his  bedroom,  where  Gussie  can 
hear  him  gasping  and  struggling.  A  moment  after  he 
returns  and  mutters  something  about  getting  soap  in  his 
eyes,  which  look  both  red  and  watery  ;  then  he  sarcastic- 
ally remarks  :  "  Why  don't  you  cable  and  inquire  about 
your  ten  thousand  pounds  ?  " 

"  So  I  will !  "  cries  Gussie,  and  he  orders  his  carriage, 
remarking  :  "  I  have  been  expecting  that  ten  thousand, 
yer  see.  I  have  so  many  payments  to  make,  there'd  be 
weeping  and  wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth  if  I  didn't  get 
it  on  time,  don't  yer  know  ? " 

Which  is  perfectly  true,  for  the  little  fellow  has 
practically  discounted  a  great  portion  of  his  expected 
money. 

He  has  paid  no  bills,  and  has  even  borrowed  from 
his  cousin,  the  venerable  Van  Twiler,  two  thousand  dol- 
lars to  keep  him  running. 

This  has  been  cordially  loaned  by  the  old  gentleman, 
who  has  said  good-naturedly  :  "  You  young  spendthrift  ! 
But  then,  boys  will  be  boys.  Cousin  Bassington,  return 
it  at  your  leisure." 

Using  this  sum  entirely  for  pocket-money,  Augustus 
has  succeeded  in  running  himself  in  debt  by  orders  for 
carriages,  horses,  bric-ti-brac,  works  of  art,  and  a  thousand 
other  accessories  and  appurtenances  necessary  to  the 
maintenance  of  the  rank  of  an  English  peer.  Most  of  his 
spare  cash  has  been  bestowed  upon  the  charming  little 
Rosalie  Mountjoy  of  the  Gaiety  troupe,  who  has  fallen 
desperately  in  love  with  the  little  aristocrat  since  he  be- 


MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE.  23tj 

came  a  lord,  and  has  summarily  discharged  from  her  affec- 
tions the  plebeian  Hicks. 

Consequently,  as  Mr.  Gussie  drives  down  to  Wall  Street 
his  bank-account  is  represented  by  a  balance  in  two 
figures,  and  his  debts  and  liabilities,  incurred  since  he 
has  received  his  title,  by  nearly  twenty  thousand  dollars. 
Therefore  he  is  very  anxious  for  his  draft. 

Arriving  at  Wall  Street,  he  goes  tremblingly  up  to  the 
office  he  had  left  in  such  high  feather,  joy,  and  glory  but 
a  little  over  a  fortnight  before,  to  discover  that  the  squib 
in  the  newspaper  is  a  horrible  and  undeniable  fact. 

But  here,  to  his  more  rapid  and  sudden  undoing,  he 
chances  to  encounter  one  of  the  reporters  of  a  daily 
paper. 

This  gentleman  of  the  press,  knowing  his  lordship  by 
sight,  and  noting  his  agitated  and  excited  appearance, 
introduces  himself  and  begs  to  ask  if  Lord  Bassington 
has  suffered  any  loss  by  the  absconding  firm. 

"  Loss  !  "  screams  Gussie.  "  The  beggars  had  my 
draft  on  Messrs.  Brown,  Studley  &  Wilberforce,  of  Lon- 
don, for  ten  thousand  pounds  !  Two  weeks  ago  they  an- 
nounced the  discovery  of  my  accession  to  the  Barony  of 
Bassington  and  its  estates,  so  I  drew  through  them  on 
my  London  solicitors  for  ten  thousand.  That  infernal 
scoundrel  Stillman  was  the  man  who  first  brought  me  the 
information  of  my  English  title,  and  paid  me  a  thousand 
pounds  that  had  been  cabled  to  him  to  my  credit !  " 

At  this  extraordinary  information  "  the  knight  of  the 
quill  "  opens  his  eyes  and  his  ears  also,  and  proceeding  to 
sympathize  very  greatly  with  Lord  Bassington's  evident 
loss,  becomes  quite  friendly  with  the  unsuspecting  Gus- 
sie, and  finally  draws  from  him  the  whole  story  of  his 
wondrous  elevation  to  the  peerage  through  Stillman, 
Myth  &  Co. 

After  giving  this  information  in  an  excited  but  some- 
what irrelevant  manner,  Mr.  Gussie  bolts  for  a  telegraph 
office  and  immediately  cables  Brown,  Studley  &  Wilber- 
force, stating  that,  as  Lord  Bassington,  whose  rents  they 
collect,  he  has  drawn  on  them  for  ten  thousand  pounds 
in  favor  of  Messrs.  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co.,  and  stopping 
payment  of  the  same. 

Then  he  goes  home  and  is  miserably  anxious  all  day 
for  his  money.  He  tells  the  men  at  the  club  that  "  he 


226  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

fears  he's  been  robbed  by  those  infernal  scoundrels, 
Stillman,  Myth  &  Co.,  of  Wall  Street,  of  a  cool  ten 
thousand  pounds  ;  they  had  his  draft  on  his  London 
agents  for  that  amount,"  etc.,  etc. 

But,  wonderful  to  relate,  no  doubt  of  title  or  wer.lth 
ever  enters  his  head.  He  has  enjoyed  them  for  a  little 
time,  and  they  are  to  him  as  fixed  and  real  as  the  streets 
he  walks  upon  and  the  dinner  he  eats. 

While  this  has  been  going  on,  however,  the  gentleman 
of  the  press  has  rushed  for  the  office  of  his  city  editor, 
and  after  relating  to  him  the  extraordinary  conversation 
he  has  had  with  the  newly-made  English  peer,  a  cable  is 
sent  to  the  London  representative  of  their  paper,  direct- 
ing him  to  call  on  the  well-known  solicitors  and  cable  at 
once  the  exact  facts  regarding  Lord  Bassington's  title 
and  estates ;  and  next  morning  VAN  BEEKMAN'S  ARISTO- 
CRATIC BUBBLE  BURSTS ! 

Arising  to  his  breakfast,  Gussie  finds  among  his  mail 
a  telegram  addressed  to  "Bassington,"  tears  it  open  and 
reads,  and  as  he  does  so  the  sweat  of  horror  comes  upon 
his  brow,  for  these  are  its  awful  words  : 

"Bassington  title  still  in  abeyance.  No  rents  to  collect  for  you. 
You  have  been  imposed  upon. 

"BROWN  STUDLEY  &  WILBBRFORCE. 
"Coll." 

With  a  gasp  of  dismay  he  sinks,  weak  and  unnerved, 
into  a  chair,  muttering  :  "  The  idiots  ! — there  must  be  a 
mistake.  I  suppose  they'll  say  they  didn't  cable  a  thou- 
sand pounds  to  me  next !  " 

Then  a  spasm  of  agony  shoots  through  him,  and  with 
a  shriek  of  horrified  anguish  he  bounds  from  his  chair  and 
falls  limp  and  groaning  on  the  floor,  for  his  rolling  eyes 
have  caught  sight  of  an  open  newspaper  upon  the  table, 
and  in  its  largest  type,  and  heading  its  most  prominent 
column,  he  has  read  : 

"THE  BOGUS  BASSINGTON! 
«HA!  HAH 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  93? 

CHAPTER    XX. 

*DEAR   GAL — DO   SOMETHING    FOR    HER   SOME  DAY.* 

"  SHALL  I  let  'em  bin  ?  "  asks  his  man  with  a  grin, 
assisting  him  to  rise. 

"Who?" 

"  The  creditors.  They're  in  a  body  houtside,  and  are 
getting  wery  impatient,  your  lordship." 

"  Good  heavens  !     So  soon  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  lord,  it's  near  eleven  o'clock.  They  read 
the  papers  afore  you  was  hup,  and  'ave  been  'anging 
about  for  two  hours  or  more.  They're  getting  hob- 
streperous  now.  There's  a  jeweller's  young  man  talking 
about  harrest,  and  the  horseshoer  has  hinted  he'll  let  you 
'ave  it  from  the  shoulder." 

"  Great  Lord !  Yes,  I  hear  them,"  whispers  Gussie. 
with  white  lips.  Then  he  suddenly  cries  :  "  It  ain't  pos- 
sible. It  must  be  a  nightmare  ! "  And  rushing  at  the 
newspaper,  gives  a  moan  and  drops  it  in  despair.  For 
its  head-lines,  such  as  "  Gussie  Now  Regrets  the  Baby 
Mine,"  "  Van  Beekman's  Masquerade,"  "  Hicks's  Chances 
Improving,"  "  Naughty  Little  Mountjoy !  "  "  The  Hoax 
of  the  Season  !  "  "  Who  Did  It  ?  ?  ?  "  in  startling  type  and 
sensational  punctuation,  appall  and  daze  him, 

But  after  a  moment  he  forces  himself  to  read  the 
article,  and  learning  in  it  more  about  himself  than  he  had 
ever  guessed  before,  utters  such  shrieks  and  groans  of 
agony  that  his  valet,  though  choking  with  laughter,  sym- 
pathizes with  his  despair. 

This  fellow,  a  well-meaning  youth  of  English  birth, 
who  has  only  been  in  Gussie's  service  a  week,  having 
been  selected  for  his  Cockney  accent,  now  remarks  again  : 
"  Your  creditors  !  Will  you  see  'em,  your  lordship  ?  " 

"  Don't  call  me  that  cursed  name  !  "  yells  Gussie  des- 
perately ;  next  whispers  :  "You  let  my  creditors  in,  every 
one  of  them,  and  111  go  into  Avonmere's  rooms.  While 
they're  waiting  for  me  here  I'll  get  through  the  hall  and 
dodge  the  beggars.  Don't  yer  see  ? " 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

"  Then  wait  till  I'm  in  the  bath-room."  And  Gussii 
disappears. 


228  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

The  floor  is  arranged  after  the  following  manner  : 

Van  Beekman  occupies  a  parlor  and  bedroom  at  the 
front  of  the  house.  Avo'nmere  has  the  same  accommo- 
dations at  the  rear.  A  bath-room  for  joint  use  is  between. 
This  has  doors  opening  into  both  gentlemen's  chambers, 
making  it  a  passage  between  the  two  suites  of  apartments. 

Into  this  Gussie  slips,  and  panting  like  a  hunted  animal 
locks  the  door  to  his  bed-chamber  behind  him  as  he  hears 
the  rush  of  his  creditors  and  their  excited  voices  in  his 
own  parlor. 

"  His  lordship  his  just  dressing ;  he'll  see  you  hall, 
gents,  in  a  few  moments,"  remarks  his  valet. 

Blessing  his  servitor  for  his  ready  lies,  and  moving  along 
very  cautiously  for  fear  he  may  make  a  noise  that  will 
give  his  pursuers  some  suspicion  of  his  whereabouts,  th« 
bath-room  being  rather  dimly  lighted  from  an  air-shaft, 
the  trembling  Gussie  perceives  the  door  into  Avonmere's 
bedroom  is  slightly  open,  and  getting  near  to  it,  for  the 
first  time  this  day  a  ray  of  joy  comes  into  his  life. 

He  hears  and  recognizes  a  voice  !  It  is  that  of  Still- 
man,  the  lawyer  who  first  announced  his  title  to  him 
and  paid  him  five  thousand  dollars  on  account  of  his 
rents. 

For  a  moment  he  imagines  this  solicitor  has  come  to 
see  him  and  explain  the  horrible  error  the  newspapers 
have  made — that  he  must  have  got  into  Avonmere's  rooms 
by  mistake. 

He  is  about  to  open  the  door  and  step  in  to  him  for 
hope  and  comfort  when  Avonmere's  voice  comes  to  him, 
bringing  knowledge  that  petrifies  him  with  despair,  yet 
vivifies  him  with  rage  and  fury. 

"  I  brought  you  into  my  bedroom  ;  there's  no  danger 
of  any  one  hearing  from  the  hall.  You  did  your  work 
very  well,  Chumpie,"  remarks  his  lordship.  "  There's  the 
money  for  you  and  Machlin.  He  jilted  the  heiress  in 
short  order.  The  young  lady's  got  my  ring  on  her  finger 
now.  The  joke's  all  over  town.  You  can  tell  your  part 
in  the  hoax  to  the  reporters  and  make  what  dramatic 
capital  you  can  out  of  it,  though  I  would  prefer  you 
omitted  my  name,  if  possible,  in  connection  with  the 
little  cad's  undoing." 

"  Thank  you,  my  lord,"  answers  the  actor,  and  Gus. 
sie  can  hear  the  crinkle  of  the  greenbacks  as  he  fold! 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  229 

them  up  and  places  them  in  his  pocket-book.  "  You  are 
sure  the  little  brat's  ruined  ?  " 

"What  makes  you  so  vindictive  against  him,  Chum- 
pie  ? "  murmurs  the  peer  with  a  smile. 

"  He  called  me  a  bad  actor  !  "  cries  the  Thespian. 

Upon  this  Avonmere  breaks  into  a  laugh  and  says  : 
"  Well,  you  can  be  certain  of  your  revenge.  Little  Gus- 
sie's  ruined  to  all  eternity  in  New  York,  socially  and 
every  other  way.  He  owes  twenty  thousand  dollars,  run 
up  on  the  strength  of  the  coronet  your  dramatic  hands 
placed  upon  his  brow.  His  creditors  are  hunting  for 
him  now.  Listen  to  them  !  " 

At  this  moment  a  hum  of  rage  from  the  front  apart- 
ments comes  to  their  ears,  as  the  enraged  duns  discover 
Van  Beekman's  absence  and  start  down-stairs  to  hunt 
up  their  debtor  at  his  club-haunts  or  run  him  down  on 
the  street. 

"  They'll  never  forgive  him ;  neither  will  society,  of 
whom  he  has  made  a  fool.  The  lower  they  have  bowed 
to  him  the  lower  they  will  kick  Baron  Bassington  of  the 
British  Peerage,"  laughs  the  peer. 

"  Yes,  they'll  evict  him  as  he  would  his  Irish  tenants  !  " 
roars  the  actor ;  and  he  gives  a  jeering  account  of  his 
interview  with  Augustus,  in  which  he  made  him  a  lord 
of  the  realm,  going  over  the  affair  with  many  chuckles 
and  much  glee. 

When  suddenly  he  stops  in  mid-laugh,  and  shrieking, 
"  Good  Lord,  I'm  murdered  !  "  falls  writhing  on  the  bed- 
room floor,  for  little  Gussie  has  sprung  out  of  the  bath- 
room with  a  howl  of  despairing  rage,  and  has  struck  the 
comic  Chumpie  to  the  earth  with  an  awful  blow  upon 
the  back  of  the  head  with  his  trusty  dude  cane. 

At  first  Avonmere  starts  back  in  horror  and  surprise, 
the  attack  on  the  comedian  has  been  of  such  a  jack-in- 
box  order ;  next  he  bursts  into  such  roars  of  lalighter 
that  the  tears  roll  down  his  cheeks  till  he  can't  see  ; 
though  he  tries  to  pull  himself  together  to  go  to  Chum- 
pie's  aid,  for  the  belligerent  Gussie  has  fallen  upon  the 
Thespian  again,  ana  in  a  suent,  vindictive,  and  fiendish 
way  is  thumping  him  into  a  mummy. 

Seizing  Van  Beekman,  his  lordship  pulls  him  off  his 
writhing  antagonist,  and  after  a  struggle  in  which  Gussie 
fights  fiercely,  h^  tosses  him  into  the  corner  of  the  room 


23°  MISS    NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

"Curse  you!"  cries  Avonmere.  "Why  can't  you  stay 
in  your  part  of  the  house,  you  little  impostor  !  " 

"  Who's  made  me  an  impostor  ?  You  and  that  play-act- 
ing liar,"  screams  Gussie.  And  springing  at  Mr.  Chum- 
pie,  who  has  half-risen  to  his  feet,  he  gives  him  another 
vindictive  thwack  that  brings  him.  to  the  floor  again. 

"  Keep  your  hands  off  him,  hang  you  !  Do  you  want 
to  murder  the  man  ? "  cries  his  lordship. 

"  Yes,  and  you  too  !  "  answers  Gussie.  "  You  made 
me  a  lord  for  me  to  jilt  Tillie  Follis — I  heard  you  !  For 
that  you  threw  away  five  thousand  dollars,  you  trick- 
ster !  " 

"  Not  all  of  it,"  sneers  the  Englishman  in  a  nasty  voice. 
"  You  forget  our  little  game  at  poker.  Quiet,  or  I'll  send 
for  the  police  !  " 

For  at  this  Gussie  has  gone  into  a  jibbering  invective 
that  makes  Avonmere  think  the  little  wretch  insane. 

"  To  get  that  girl's  money  you've  ruined  me  ! "  he  yells. 
"  They'll  kick  me  out  of  society !  Ha,  ha  !  They'll 
bounce  me  from  the  club  !  Ho,  ho  !  Yesterday  a  peei 
of  England,  now  a  social  pariah  !  Ha,  ha !  Ho,  ho  ! 
He,  he  !  Up  like  a  rocket,  down  like  the  stick  !  Look 
out  for  the  stick,  my  Lord  Avonmere  !  If  it  hits  you  in 
the  eye — ha,  ha !  Ho,  ho  !  He,  he  ! — My  God,  I'n> 
going  crazy !  " 

And  with  a  giggle  of  despair  little  Gussie  bolts  through 
his  host's  parlor  into  the  hall,  flies  down  the  stairs,  and 
shoots  along  the  street  toward  Fifth  Avenue,  followed 
by  one  or  two  of  his  duns  who  have  been  lingering  in  the 
vicinity  of  his  domicile. 

"  Egad  !  I  think  he  has  gone  mad,"  says  his  lordship, 
looking  after  the  departing  Gussie. 

"  Mad  !  "  groans  Chumpie,  cautiously  getting  to  his 
feet,  "  I  hope  so.  The  little  demon  has  bruised  me 
till  I  shan't  be  able  to  do  my  comic  dance  for  a  week  ! 
A — a  little  brandy."  And  he  staggers  to  a  sofa. 

From  which,  after  being  revived  by  stimulants,  he  is 
%ssisted  to  a  cab  by  Avonmere  and  sent  to  his  home. 

Plastered  and  bandaged  up,  however,  he  contrives  to 
get  about  later  in  the  afternoon,  and  to  impart  his  version 
of  his  wonderful  hoax  upon  the  aspiring  Van  Beekman  ta 
various  inquiring  reporters  ;  also  stating  that  the  little  cad 
being  impertinent  to  him,  he-  Chumpie — had  soundlj 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  «Jl 

thrashed  Augustus  after  the  manner  of  the  British  P.  R. 
"  The  coward  hit  me  with  his  brutal  dude-club  from 
behind,  twice,"  says  the  comedian,  "  but  after  that — after 
THAT  !  "  And  he  waves  his  hand  and  rolls  up  his  eyes 
in  a  manner  that  indicates  if  Gussie  now  lives  he  must 
be  blessed  with  a  feline  tenacity  of  life. 

Then  the  evening  papers  giving  whole  columns  to  his 
story,  Chumpie,  the  great  practical  joker,  the  inimitable 
farceur,  appears  that  night  at  the  Broadway  Theatre  to 
a  packed  house,  who  give  him  a  wild  reception,  mingled 
with  calls  from  the  gallery  of  "  How's  his  ludship  ? " 

As  for  the  butt  of  these  gibes,  after  leaving  his  house 
he  has  skipped  down  the  avenue  to  his  club.  Within  its 
sacred  portals  he  thinks  he  will  be  safe  from  pursuing 
creditors. 

He  arrives  there  in  a  panting  and  despairing  state. 
He  has  passed  two  ladies  that  he  had  flirted  and  danced 
with  but  two  evenings  ago  at  the  Patriarchs. 

The  sight  of  him  produces  so  much  laughter  in  his 
former  partners  that  they  forget  to  bow  to  him.  They 
roll  past  in  their  carriage  as  he  mutters  to  himself  despond- 
ingly  :  "  Cut  the  first  dash  !  That's  what  they'll  all  do  ! 
I  know  'em !  I'd  better  blow  my  brains  out.  No,  no  ; 
not  till  I've  ruined  that  jeering  devil  Avonmere  as  he's 
ruined  me." 

And  this  not  very  noble  motive  possibly  keeps  Augustus 
Van  Beekman  from  suicide  this  day,  for  he  has  the  cour- 
age of  a  rat — an  animal  that,  pursued  and  hunted,  some- 
times does  very  desperate  things. 

And  on  this  day  poor  little  Gussie  is  both  pursued  and 
hunted.  He  has  thought  the  club  will  be  a  place  of 
refuge.  So  it  is,  and  so  perhaps  is  the  Hades  of  mythol- 
ogy. 

His  creditors,  outside  fiends,  cannot  enter  to  torture 
him  ;  but  there  are  enough  energetic  devils  within  to 
keep  the  coals  bright  and  red  for  the  broiling  and  roast- 
ing of  Mr.  Augustus. 

In  the  hall,  prominently  posted  up  by  a  wag,  under 
new  memberships,  is  a  notice  : 

FOR   ELECTION. 

Gussie  de  P.  Van  Beekman,  vice  Baron  Bassington, 
of  Harrowby  Castle,  England.  ON  ICE  ! 


23«  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERR 

Proposed  by  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co.,  Seconded  by  Bab} 
Mine,  and  Sorrowing  Members  of  the  House  of  Lords. 

Tearing  this  down  with  a  gasp  of  rage,  Augustus 
strides  to  the  office  and  .sks  for  his  letters. 

"  What  name  ?  "  asks  the  clerk,  looking  red  in  the  face. 

"  Oh,  curse  it,  White  !  all  my  names  !  Give  me  every- 
thing meant  for  me.  Damn  it,  don't  laugh  ! "  he  cries. 

"  I — I  can't  help  it,  my  lord — I — ,"  stammers  the  man, 
placing  before  him  what  he  asks. 

Seizing  his  mail,  Gussie  sneaks  with  it  to  the  most 
retired  spot  in  the  house,  a  few  jeering  laughs  following 
him  from  the  smoking-room,  though  one  man,  whom  he 
has  scarcely  known  before,  says  :  "  Van  Beekman  I  sym- 
pathize with  you.  It  was  a  dastardly  hoax  of  which  you 
were  a  victim." 

Then  he  looks  over  his  letters  in  an  aimless,  dazed  way. 

All  of  them  save  one  are  addressed  to  him  by  his  erst- 
while title  ;  they  are  mostly  invitations  to  fetes  and  func- 
tions. "  By  George  !  if  poor  Van  Beekman  went  to  one  of 
these  upon  Lord  Bassington's  invite,  I — I  believe  they'd 
kick  Gussie  out,"  he  groans  to  himself.  "  They  don't 
love  me  any  more. " 

Of  this  he  has  immediate  proof.  A  senile  hand  is  laid 
on  his  shoulder,  and  a  septuagenarian  voice  whispers  in  his 
ear  :  "  My  two  thousand  dollars,  you  infernal  scoundrel !  " 

And  springing  up,  Gussie  is  confronted  by  the  vener- 
able Van  Twiler. 

"  That's  not  my  name  ! "  says  the  persecuted  one,  with 
an  attempt  at  spirit. 

"  No — perhaps  it's  Lord  Bassington  ?  That's  what  you 
borrow  money  under  !  " 

"  Oh,  cousin,  why  do  you  jump  on  me  to-day  ?  "  says 
Gussie,  piteously,  breaking  down.  "  Can't  you  see  I'm 
so  demned  miserable  I  could  blow  out  my  brains  ?  " 

"  The  best  thing  for  you  to  do,  sir !  You  pay  me  my 
money  or  I'll  have  you  in  jail  !  False  pretences,  my  Lord 
Bassington  ! — remember  that !  "  And  Van  Twiler  walks 
away,  muttering  to  himself,  "  Confidence  man  !  " 

But  the  unhappy  Augustus  is  too  miserable  to  resent 
even  this. 

In  a  sort  of  hopeless,  helpless  semi-coma  he  sinks  into 
a  chair,  lays  his  aching  head  upon  the  table  among  his 


MISS    NOBOnt    OF    NOWHERE.  233 

letters,  and  the  tears  of  little  Gussie  Van  Beekman  roll 
down  upon  and  wet  the  invitations  written  to  beg  the 
presence  of  the  haughty  Lord  Bassington  to  fttc  and 
revel. 

A  moment  after  his  eye  catches  sight  of  a  note  directed 
to  Augustus  Van  Beekman.  With  a  snarl  of  rage,  for  he 
thinks  it  has  been  so  addressed  to  remind  him  of  his 
fallen  greatness,  he  is  about  to  tear  it  up  unopened,  but 
the  handwriting  is  that  of  a  woman,  and  unknown  to 
him. 

So,  curiosity  conquering  anger,  he  tears  it  open,  and 
gives  out  an  astounded  "  By  Jove  !  "  after  perusing  the 
following : 

"  No.  637  FIFTH  AVENUE, 

"  Saturday,  January  25 ,  1890. 

"  Miss  Florence  Follis  presents  her  compliments  to  Mr.  Augustus 
Van  Beekman,  and  begs  him,  in  case  he  receives  this  communication 
in  time,  to  call  upon  her,  at  the  above  address,  at  three  o'clock  this 
afternoon.  She  wishes  to  speak  to  him  on  a  matter  of  some  per- 
sonal moment  to  himself. 

"Should  Mr.  Van  Beekman  not  be  able  to  come  as  specified, 
will  he  oblige  Miss  Follis  by  informing  her  at  what  hour  on  Mon- 
day she  may  expect  him  ?  " 

"  What  the  deuce  does  she  want  me  for  ?  "  he  asks  him- 
self. Then  a  very  wild  idea  entering  his  head,  from  which 
even  this  day's  humiliation  has  not  driven  all  conceit,  he 
thinks:  "  Perhaps  Matilde  has  hopes  of  me  now  I've  lost 
my  title,  and  has  put  her  sister  up  to  sounding  me  on  the 
matter.  I'll  not  balk  her  this  time.  By  jingo,  with  those 
harpies  outside,  what  fellah  would  ? "  Through  the 
window  he  can  see  several  of  his  duns  loitering  about  to 
pounce  upon  him  the  moment  he  leaves  the  protecting 
portals  of  the  club. 

Looking  at  his  watch,  he  finds  he  can  just  reach  Miss 
Flossie's  home  at  the  time  mentioned  in  that  young  lady's 
note. 

"  I'll  give  those  infernal  scoundrels  out  there  a  flying 
start !  "  he  mutters,  looking  at  his  persecutors  in  the  street 
with  a  sarcastic  and  unkindly  grin. 

Which  he  does  after  fortifying  and  strengthening  him- 
self with  a  sandwich  and  glass  of  wine. 

He  calls  a  hall-boy,  and  tipping  him  well,  says;  "  Jimmy 


234  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

go  out  and  get  that  hansom  with  the  smart  horse  and  fly- 
looking  driver,  and  tell  him  double  fare  if  he  does  as  I 
want  him." 

"  Double  fare  '11  fix  him  sure,"  answers  the  urchin. 

"Then  give  him  these  instructions."  And  Gussie 
whispering  a  few  directions  in  his  ear,  the  boy  goes  into 
the  street  on  his  errand. 

A  few  moments  after  he  comes  in  and  hurriedly  an- 
nounces, "  He's  at  the  door  !  "  but  looking  out,  Augustus 
sees  it's  too  late. 

The  cab  is  waiting  opposite  the  portal,  its  door  open 
and  its  driver  ready  to  whip  up  the  instant  Gussie  enters 
it ;  i_ut  the  people  on  watch  for  him  outside,  being  wary 
and  experienced  Li  such  matters,  have  come  to  the  club 
portals  also,  making  it  almost  impossible  to  elude  them  as 
he  rushes  to  the  hack. 

After  a  moment's  glum  consideration,  Van  Beekman 
whispers  a  few  words  to  Jimmy,  accompanying  his  sen- 
tence with  a  dollar  bill. 

Then,  in  the  course  of  a  minute,  that  young  gentleman 
hastily  pursues,  with  cries  and  execrations,  another  hall- 
boy  to  the  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue,  where,  overtaking  him, 
the  two  urchins  go  to  fighting  like  fiends  and  roll  about 
on  the  sidewalk  with  yells  of  pain  and  howls  of  anger. 
The  waiting  crowd  rush  after  them. 

As  this  happens,  with  pale  face  and  flying  feet  Augus- 
tus springs  from  the  portals  of  the  Stuyvesant  into  the 
hack  ;  the  driver  gives  his  horse  a  vicious  cut,  and 
though  Van  Beekman's  persecutors  note  the  ruse  and 
pursue  him,  he  escapes.  Then,  after  a  wild  rush  of  some 
squares,  none  of  his  followers  being  in  sight,  he  orders 
the  hansom  to  drive  to  637  Fifth  Avenue. 

Here  he  is  apparently  expected  ;  the  footman  shows 
him  into  the  reception  room  at  once,  and  Miss  Flossie, 
who  has  risen  at  his  entrance,  says  to  the  servant :  "  At 
home  to  no  one  for  the  present." 

Then  the  girl  remarks  quietly  :  "  Mr.  Van  Beekman,  I 
believe,"  motioning  Gussie  to  a  chair,  though  she  seems 
somewhat  agitated  and  walks  about  in  a  nervous  way  as 
if  she  did  not  know  exactly  how  to  begin  the  conver- 
sation. 

Having  nothing  to  say  himself,  Augustus  does  not 
attempt  to  assist  Miss  Flossie  by  opening  his  lips,  save  to 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWH2RE.  835 

chew  the  end  of  his  cane,  which  he  does,  gazing  at  the 
young  lady,  whose  embarrassment  adds  to  her  beauty) 
which  is  pale  and  red  in  alternate  moments,  though  her 
eyes  are  very  bright  from  excitement  of  some  kind. 

"  Egad  !  "  thinks  Gussie,  looking  at  the  pretty  tableau 
before  him.  "  Flossie  wouldn't  do  badly  herself  for  yours 
truly." 

He  has  a  horrid  familiar  way  of  considering  women 
in  his  weakly  mind,  and  has  been  pondering  upon  the 
reason  of  this  girl's  note  as  he  has  been  riding  in  the  cab, 
with  this  astounding  result :  "  Tillie  is  sure  of  Avonmere 
— a  genuine  lord — no  chance  of  her.  Flossie  has  seen 
me  !  Perhaps — no  telling — these  erratic  Western  gals 
— no  telling  !  " 

Before  he  has  time  for  much  thought,  however,  words 
strike  Mr.  Gussie's  ear  that  make  him  start. 

"  I've  been  thinking  over  my  conduct  in  regard  to  the 
deceit  practised  upon  you,  Mr.  Van  Beekman,"  the  girl 
begins,  "  the  miserable  hoax  I  assisted  in,  the  bogus  title 
you  were  made  to  believe  was  yours." 

"  The  hoax  you  assisted  in  ? "  gasps  her  listener, 
astounded. 

"  Yes.  Without  me,"  says  the  young  lady,  struggling 
with  a  smile,  "  you  would  never  have  been  Lord  Bassing- 
ton  of  the  English  peerage." 

"  Don't  laugh  !  Hang  it  !  you  didn't  bring  me  here 
to  have  fun  with  me  ?  "  yells  Gussie,  growing  very  angry. 

"  No,"  answers  the  girl  slowly.  "  I  brought  you  here 
to  make  some  kind  of  an  atonement.  It  was  my  money 
that  was  paid  to  you  as  if  cabled  from  London  by  your 
solicitors." 

"  Your  money  cabled  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I've  read  about  it  in  the  morning  papers.  I 
know  exactly  the  part  I  and  my  contribution  played  in 
the  affair,"  continues  Flossie.  "  It  was  my  five  thousand 
dollais  that  was  given  you  by  Stillman,  Myth  &  Co.  to 
prove  you  were  a  lord  and  had  a  rent-roll." 

"  Oh,  it  was  you,  was  it  ?"  cries  Gussie,  savagely,  the 
memory  of  his  awful  troubles  coming  very  vividly  to  his 
mind  and  making  him  wild.  "It  was  you?  Do  you 
know  what  you've  done  ?  " 

"  No,"  says  the  girl  faintly,  for  the  little  wretch  looks 
haggard,  miserable,  and  pathetic,  and  she  remembers  him 


236  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

but  two  days  before  as  the  light-hearted,  haughty,  and 
supercilious  Lord  Bassington. 

"  Then,  I'll  tell  you  !  "  screams  Augustus.  "  You've 
made  me  a  bankrupt  and  an  outcast.  They  say  I'll  go 
to  jail  for  money  obtained  under  false  pretences.  They 
hint  I'll  be  kicked  out  of  the  clubs  for  conduct  unbecom- 
ing a  gentleman.  Society  '11  jump  on  me.  For  every 
kick  Lord  Bassington  gave  them,  they  give  poor,  unpro- 
tected Gussie  a  dozen.  All  the  morning,  duns  have 
haunted  my  house  till  I  fled  from  it.  All  the  after- 
noon, people  have  pointed  at  me  on  the  street  and 
jeered  at  me.  But  five  minutes  ago  on  the  avenue,  a  lady 
who  had  invited  Baron  Bassington  to  her  dinner-party 
this  evening  cut  Mr.  Van  Beekman  dead.  That's 
what  I  am,  DEAD  ! — socially,  financially — that's  what  I 
really  will  be  corporally  before  night.  There  are  two 
rivers " 

"  Don't  talk  in  that  horrible  way,"  interrupts  the  girl 
with  a  shudder. 

"  Won't  I  ?  Why  not  ?  "  he  goes  on  at  her,  for  in  lit- 
tle matters  he  is  sometimes  very  shrewd,  and  a  sudden 
thought  has  struck  him  that  sympathy  from  the  great 
heiress  can  do  him  no  harm.  "  What  else  have  I  in  life  ? 
An  outcast  with  but  the  river  to  save  me  from  prison  and 
humiliation.  I'll  give  the  newspapers  another  item. 
Bogus  Bassington  shall  have  another  head-line  :  Beek- 
man's  Bound  to  Beelzebub.  That'll  suit  them.  Don't 
shrink  from  me.  I — I  ain't  crazy  ;  I'm  only  a  poor  so- 
ciety pariah.  That's  all,  a  PARIAH  ! — made  so  by  a  girl 
who  has  so  much  money  she  plays  jokes  that  ruin  men's 
lives  !  That's  all !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  "  And  making  a  faint 
and  abortive  attempt  to  kiss  her  hand,  he  sinks  writhing 
into  a  chair,  while  Flossie  stands  gazing  at  him,  half  in 
terror,  half  in  sorrow  and  sympathy. 

She  falters  :  "  It  may  not  be  so  bad  as  you  think. 
Couldn't  I  make  atonement  to  you  of  some  kind  ? " 

"  Atonement  ? — iromyou  ?  "  he  answers.  "  What  atone- 
ment can  you  make  for  kicking  a  man  out  of  his  club  and 
into  prison  ?  That's  what  it  means — jail — bread  and 
water — convict's  clothes — and  no  fashions." 

"  These  matters  may  perhaps  be  arranged,"  remarks 
Flossie.  "  If  you  would  only  calm  yourself — and  think- 
not  rave  I  I  am  rich.  I  might <•" 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  »37 

*  Settle  with  my  creditors  ? "  cries  Gussie,  springing  up, 
and  hope  illuminating  his  countenance.  Then  he  says 
desperately:  "  The  governors  '11  kick  me  out  of  my  clubs, 
anyway." 

"Couldn't  your  friends  speak  to  them? " 

"I — I  haven't  got  any  friends,"  he  gasps  hopelessly. 

"  No  friends  ? "  murmurs  the  girl,  gazing  at  him  in 
sympathetic  horror. 

"  Yes,  lots,  till  you  robbed  me  of  'em,"  he  mutters. 
"  When  you  made  me  Lord  Bassington,  you  put  me  so 
high  they  all  hated  me  ;  and  now  I'm  down  again,  they'll 
show  it." 

"  You  have  no  friends — that  would  help  you  arrange 
your  matters — if  I  would  furnish  the  money?"  asks 
Flossie,  coming  to  the  subject  in  a  hesitating,  shame- 
faced sort  of  way. 

"  None  I  would  trust,"  he  replies.  Then  he  cries  joy- 
fully, "  Oh,  yes,  there  is.  Phil  Everett — you  know  him, 
the  Boston  chap  you  darnced  with  all  night  at  the  Patri- 
archs !  " 

"  Yes— I  know  him — slightly,"  returns  Flossie,  growing 
red. 

"  Well,  you  go  to  him  and  tell  him " 

"  I  go  to  him  ?     Nonsense  !  " 

"  Yaas  !  But  you'll  have  to,  if  you  want  to  fix  my 
affairs.  There's  Gill  &  Patrick  '11  have  me  in  jail.  It  '11 
take  a  man  to  negotiate  with  them.  It  was  for  the  dia- 
mond ring  I  gave  your  sister — the  one  Avonmere  won 
from  me  at  poker.  I  saw  it  on  Tillie's  finger  the  other 
night.  Kind  of  funny — one  ring  and  two  fellahs.  Why, 
what's  the  matter  ?  " 

For  at  this  Flossie  has  given  an  exclamation  of  disgust, 
and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  Yes,  it's  not  nice,  such  social  eccentricity,  is  it  ?  " 
he  babbles  on,  the  thought  of  getting  rid  of  his  creditors 
elevating  his  spirits.  "Why  the  deuce  did  you  help 
Avonmere  against  me?  He's  worse  than  I  am.  You 
don't  know  Avonmere  yet,  nor  the  widow  neither — 
they're  a  pair ;  they're  pulling  in  your  sister  nicely. 
They've " 

But  the  girl  cuts  short  any  more  of  his  gossip  by  rising 
suddenly  and  saying  :  "  I  made  this  appointment  at  three. 
because  I  did  not  presume  it  would  be  pleasant  for  Tillif 


238  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

to  see  you.  She  will  be  returning  home  sooa  I  must 
ask  you  to  go  before  she  comes.  I  will  pay  the  debts  you 
have  incurred,  because  you  imagined  as  Lord  Bassington 
you  could  afford  to  be  extravagant.  I  owe  that  to  my 
conscience.  I  shall  do  no  more  than  that." 

"  Very  well,"  returns  Gussie,  rising.  "  I  don't  presume 
it  would  be  pleasant  to  Matilde " 

"  Miss  Follis,  sir  !  " 

"  Of  course,  Miss  Follis.  I  presume  that  is  the  more 
formal  way.  Force  of  habit  and  all  that,  yer  know. 
I'll  go,  as  you  suggest.  I'll  send  a  friend  to  arrange  with 
you  the  matter  you  spoke  of.  Oh,  Miss  Flossie,  you've 
saved  me  from  suicide  !  God  bless  you,  dear  girl,  God 
bless  you  !  "  And  he  seizes  Flossie's  hand,  the  beauty  of 
which  he  has, been  admiring  for  the  last  minute,  and 
smothers  it  in  such  kisses  that  she  gives  a  startled  scream, 
and  pulls  it  away  from  him  with  flaming  eyes. 

Then  he  moves  to  the  door,  and  turning,  says  with  a 
little  suggestive  smile  :  "  I — awh — think  I  know  the  rea- 
son you  wished  me  to — awh — jilt  Matilde.  Au  revoir." 

"  Farewell  !  "  she  cries  very  savagely,  coming  toward 
him. 

"  Au  revoir.  By  the  bye,  the  name  of  the  friend  I 
shall  ask  to  arrange  my  financial  affairs  with  you " 

"  Yes,  let  me  know  now,  for  I  shall  not  speak  to  you 
again." 

"  No — a — you  don't  mean  it.     Cruel !  " 

"  The  name  of  your  friend,  quick  !  " 

"Phil  Everett.  Tell  him  to  call  at  nine.  Must  be 
fixed  to-night,  yer  know.  You  wouldn't  have  me  a  jail- 
bird ?  Ta,  ta  !  " 

Then  Mr.  Gussie  trips  down  to  his  cab,  his  mercurial 
temperament  rising  under  the  first  ray  of  hope  this  day 
has  brought  to  him,  as  he  thinks  to  himself  :  "  Dear  little 
gal,  going  to  pay  my  debts.  Do  something  for  her  some 
day ! " 

Flossie  gazes  after  him,  and  mutters  to  herself  :  "  The 
miserable  coxcomb  !  Shall  I  leave  him  to  his  fate  ?  He'd 
never  commit  suicide.  Why  not  ?  "  A  moment  more  she 
thinks  :  "  No,  he  has  my  promise.  His  debts  shall  be 
paid  to  a  cent.  Mr.  Everett's  coming  at  nine — on  his 
business  i  " 

Then  her  face  grows  a  sudden  vivid  red,  and  her  eyes 


MISS  NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  239 

become  brighter  and  more  sparkling.  She  laughs  :  "  How 
everything  seems  to  force  him  near  me.  Pshaw !  what 
nonsense  !  "  But  runs  up-stairs  and  gives  such  orders 
that  her  maid  mutters  :  "  Lawks,  how  particular  she  are  ! 
One  would  think  she  was  going  to  a  ball— or  is  her  best 
fellah  coming  to-night  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XXL 

"SHE   SHALL   REMEMBER  f  " 

GOING  direct  to  the  Brevoort,  Van  Beekman  sends  up 
Kis  card  to  Phil  Everett,  and  this  coming  to  Miss  Bessie's 
pretty  hands,  that  young  lady  runs  to  her  brother's  room, 
and  knocking  on  his  door,  as  soon  as  it  is  opened  laughs, 
"  His  Lordship  of  Bassington  wants  to  see  you." 

"  Impossible  !     I'm  too  busy  !  "  answers  her  brother. 

"  Busy  !  That's  what  you've  been  for  the  last  two 
days,  and  you  also,  Grousemoor ;  at  least,  I've  seen  very 
little  of  you  !  "  says  the  young  lady,  giving  her  sweet- 
heart, who  is  in  consultation  with  Everett,  a  somewhat 
reproachful  glance.  "  Is  it  Atchison  &  Santa  F£  bonds, 
stocks  or  mortgages  ?  " 

"  Neither,"  replies  Grousemoor  in  his  sententious  way. 
"  It's  cablegrams." 

"  You  won't  see  Mr.  Gussie.  then  ?  His  card  says  he 
has  a  message  to  deliver  from  Miss  Flossie  Follis." 

"  Florence  Follis  ?  "  cries  Phil.  "  Tell  them  to  show 
him  up  at  once." 

"  Ah,  I  thought  he'd  get  audience  !  "  laughs  the  girJ 
"  I'm  glad  Grousemoor  did  not  shout  out  also  ;  but  he's 
coming  with  me  while  you  see  Mr.  Van  Beekman." 

"  Certainly,"  answers  the  Scotch  lord.  Then  turning 
to  Phil,  he  remarks  :  "  While  he's  here  you  might  find  out 
something  of  Avonmere  from  him  ;  he  lives  in  the  same 
house." 

"  Quite  right !  "  answers  the  Bostonian.  "  I'll  do  it ; 
for  if  these  telegrams  are  true,  we'll  be  getting  to  business 
x»on." 

"  What's  the  excitement  ?  "  asks  Miss  Bessie  suddenly 


24®  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

noting  that  the  two  men  are  looking  at  each  other  in  an 
agitated,  nervous  way,  after  the  manner  of  people  who 
have  some  project  out  of  the  ordinary  upon  their  minds 

"  Something  you'll  hear  of  soon,"  answers  Grousemoor. 
'  But  here's  the  little  cad  I  was  so  unfortunate  as  to 
vouch  for  as  a  Peer  of  the  Realm." 

Then  he  and  his  sweetheart  stroll  away,  leaving  PhiL 
to  meet  Mr.  Augustus,  who  is  whistling  an  opera  bouffe 
air  and  seems  to  be  in  extraordinary  spirits  for  a  man 
who,  according  to  the  evening  papers,  is  being  turned 
out  of  society  and  hunted  by  duns,  and  perhaps  has  com- 
mitted suicide,  for  that  is  the  rumor  now  published  be- 
cause no  reporter  has  seen  him  for  three  hours. 

"  Stop  whistling  ;  come  in  and  talk,  quick  !  "  says 
Everett.  "  I'm  an  awfully  busy  man.  What's  your  mes- 
sage from  Miss  Follis  ? " 

"  Awh  ! — she's  going  to  pay  my  debts  !  " 

"  Pay  your  debts  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Lord  Bassington's  debts — Flossie  Follis  put  up 
the  job  on  me.  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  like  it  ? 
Flossie  Follis — did  you  ever " 

"  Stop  screaming  out  that  young  lady's  name  !  Do 
you  want  to  have  every  bell-boy  in  the  house  hear  you  ? 
Come  in!  Now,  are  you  mad  or  crazy?"  cries  Phil, 
closing  his  door. 

"  Neither,  dear  boy,  though  if  your  great  big  business 
brain  had  stood  one-half  of  v/hat  my  poor,  languid,  soci- 
ety cerebrum  has,  you'd  be  in  a  padded  cell  and  a 
strait-jacket !  But  as  you  seem  curious,  listen  to  a  tale 
of  woe  !  "  And  Augustus  gives  Phil  a  history  of  his  ad- 
ventures, including  the  episodes  of  his  attack  on  Chum- 
pie,  and  his  interview  with  the  younger  Miss  Follis. 

At  the  first  of  these  Everett  roars  with  laughter,  but  at 
the  second  he  looks  very  grave  and  mutters :  "  I  must 
keep  the  child's  name  out  of  the  newspapers. " 

"  Will  you  call  on  her  in  my  behalf  ?  "  asks  Gussie. 

"  With  pleasure,"  answers  Phil,  and  means  it. 

"  Then  don't  forget — nine  o'clock  !  " 

"  Certainly.  But  if  I  do  this  for  you,  you  must  do 
something  for  me." 

"Of  course." 

"  Then  from  your  story  I  judge  you  arc  not  in  love 
with  Avonmerc?" 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  24! 

*  I — I  hate  him  with  my  whole  body  !  "  answers  Gussie. 

"Very  well.  You  live  in  the  same  house  with  him. 
You  keep  your  eyes  open,  and  if  he  does  anything  out  of 
the  common,  report  it  to  me." 

"  You — you  think — "  gasps  Gussie,  excitedly. 

"  I  think  this,"  answers  Phil  :  "  if  you  want  revenge, 
here's  your  chance  for  it.  If  you  wish  to  do  a  good  turn 
to  the  generous  girl  who  is  perhaps  going  to  keep  you 
out  of  prison,  here's  your  chance  for  it !  If  you  wish  my 
aid  in  your  troubles  with  creditors  and  with  club  men, 
here's  your  chance  for  it — if  you  keep  your  mouth  very 
close,  your  eyes  very  open,  and  ask  no  questions.  Will 
you  do  it  ? " 

"  Won't  I !  "  answers  Augustus,  with  a  meaning  wink. 

"  Very  well,  where 's  a  list  of  your  debts  ?  " 

"  In  my  pocket-book,"  says  Gussie.  "  Those  marked 
with  a  star  are  private."  He  passes  the  article  to  his 
questioner,  and  takes  his  leave  with  many  remarks  about 
gratitude  as  Everett  joins  his  sister  and  Grousemoor  at 
dinner. 

At  nine  o'clock  Phil  rings  the  bell  of  637  Fifth  Avenue, 
asks  for  Miss  Florence  Follis,  and  a  moment  after  is  shak- 
ing that  young  lady's  hand  and  looking  into  her  eyes. 

"  You  come  on  behalf  of  Mr.  Van  Beekman  ? "  says 
the  girl,  who  is  robed  in  delicate  blue,  with  colored  effects, 
and  makes  a  brilliant  picture,  though  she  looks  slightly 
ashamed  as  she  wonders  what  Mr.  Everett  must  think  of 
her  connection  with  the  plot  that  made  Van  Beekman  a 
lord. 

This  feeling  makes  her  fascinatingly  nervous  and  ex- 
cited, taking  from  her  big  eyes  any  heaviness  that 
earnest  truth  might  give  to  them.  And  Phil,  gazing  at 
her  as  he  takes  a  seat,  thinks  she  looks  like  a  naughty 
fairy. 

In  regard  to  the  naughtiness  he  is  nearly  right,  for  the 
girl  is  in  a  very  haughty  as  well  as  touchy  mood  ;  which 
is,  perhaps,  owing  to  one  or  two  slights  this  young  lady 
has  suddenly  and  unaccountably  received  in  society  in  the 
last  two  days,  and  also  to  a  battle  royal  with  Mrs.  Marvin 
on  account  of  that  widow's  general  performance  on  the 
Van  Beekman- Avonmere-Matilde  engagement  question. 

This  fairy  effect  is  doubtless  heightened  by  the  dresa 
she  wears. 


242  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERR. 

At  the  ball  she  looked  as  if  in  a  cloud  ;  now  she  seems 
in  a  rainbow — from  which  her  beautiful  neck  and  arms 
spring  out  like  those  of  a  fay  ;  lace,  tulle,  and  gauze,  in 
the  soft  tints  of  the  bow  of  heaven,  floating  about  their 
gleaming  whiteness,  to  make  their  loveliness  rather  that 
of  the  air  than  that  of  the  earth. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  had  better  sit  down  ?  "  remarks 
Everett.  "  In  that  dress  one  fears  you'll  float  away. " 

"  Where  to  ?  "  she  asks,  a  little  astonished. 

"  To — to  fairy-land,"  suggests  Phil,  who  has  forgotten 
all  about  business,  looking  at  this  girl  he  has  been  dream- 
ing of  and  working  for  these  last  two  days. 

"  Sometimes  I  almost  wish  I  could  fly  anywhere  ! "  an- 
swers Miss  Flossie,  and  astounds  him.  "  You'll  find  me 
earthy  enough  this  evening,  I'm  afraid."  Then  she  goes 
on  :  "  You  came  to  see  me  on  business,  I  believe  ?  Per- 
haps what  you  will  hear  from  me  may  make  you  think 
me  like  lolanthe — -a  fairy  whose  sins  should  condemn 
her  to  the  spring  for  life,  to  wash  out  her  enormities. 
But  I  am  talking  to  you  as  if  I  had  known  you  all  my 
life,  and  we  only  met  two  days  ago.  Doubtless  you'll 
think  me  forward,  also.  Earthy  and  forward — to-night  ; 
and  at  the  Patriarchs  rude,  fibbing,  and  fickle.  What 
do  you  think  of  me  now  ?  Oh,  no — not  for  worlds  /  " 
For  Phil  is  about  to  open  his  mouth  in  rhapsody. 
"  Nothing  but  business  ;  you  came  on  Mr.  Van  Beek- 
man's  behalf." 

"  Yes,"  answers  Everett ;  "  you've  made  him  a  very 
generous  proposition,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  No,  only  an  atonement,"  answers  Flossie,  slowly. 
Next  she  says  suddenly  :  "  When  I  wrote  Mr.  Van  Beek- 
man  to-day  I  had  no  expectation  of  having  to  speak  to 
iny  one  else  about  the  matter.  I " 

"  Neither  need  you  do  so  now  !  "  cries  Phil.  "  Don't 
say  a  word — leave  Van  Beekman's  troubles  to  me.  Don't 
think  of  them  again  !  "  For  the  thought  of  explanation 
has  brought  a  vivid  blush  of  embarrassment  over  the 
girl's  face,  neck,  and  shoulders. 

"  Leave  Mr.  Van  Beekman's  troubles  to  you  ? "  say* 
Flossie,  slowly.  "  How  will  that  help  him  out  of  them  ? 
How  will  that  pay  his  debts  ?  "  Then  she  bursts  out 
suddenly  ;  "  You  mean  to  pay  them  yourself  I  To  save 
me  a  few  blushes — to  save  me  a  few  embarrassed  mo« 


MISS  NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  843 

ments — you  mean  to  rob  yourself  for  my  folly  ?  No,  no  I 
I'll  tell  you  everything.  I  insist !  I  couldn't  sleep  to- 
night !  If  you  didn't  know,  you  might  think  I  had  some 
selfish  object  in  Van  Beekman's  downfall.  You  might 
think  I  was  a  really  naughty  fairy.  Your  generous  offef 
proves  that  you  deserve  my  confidence  ! "  cries  the  girl, 
and  makes  Phil  very  happy. 

Then,  after  the  manner  of  women,  she  gives  him  an 
awful  blow,  for  she  says  :  "  I  feel  I  can  tell  you  just  as 
easily  as  I  could  Bob."  And  sitting  down  on  the  sofa 
beside  him,  in  a  mixture  of  blushes  and  embarrassment, 
mingled  with  a  little  laughter,  she  relates  to  Everett  the 
story  of  Gussie's  downfall,  keeping  Matilde's  connec- 
tion with  the  matter  as  much  in  the  background  as  pos- 
sible, though  she  doesn't  hesitate  to  tell  of  Mrs.  Marvin's 
perfidy  to  Bob. 

This  disclosure  as  to  Flossie's  trustee  and  champion 
puts  her  listener  in  a  very  good  humor.  He  shrewdly 
reasons  that  if  the  young  lady  wishes  the  mining  super- 
intendent to  marry  Tillie,  she  has  no  wish  to  be  more 
than  a  very  good  friend  to  him  herself. 

But  being  anxious  to  have  every  detail  regarding 
Avonmere  for  Flossie's  eventful  welfare,  triumph,  and 
right,  Everett  goes  to  cross-questioning  the  girl  in  a  way 
that,  under  other  circumstances,  he  might  think  ungen- 
erous. Thus  forced  to  her  own  defence,  she  is  compelled 
to  let  him  into  a  good  many  family  secrets,  the  revela- 
tion of  which  would  not  have  pleased  Avonmere  nor  Mrs. 
Marvin,  nor,  for  that  matter,  Matilde  nor  her  mother. 

This  idea  also  gradually  comes  to  the  young  lady ;  she 
looks  at  him  with  reproachful  eyes  and  mutters  :  "  You 
act  as  if  you  were  my  father  confessor.  I — I  don't  know 
why  I  have  answered  your  questions.  I — I'm  a  traitor 
to  Matilde  !  What  would  she  think  of  me  ! — telling  about 
the  same  engagement  ring  from  two  men  ?  " 

"  That,"  remarks  Everett,  "  is  part  of  Mr.  Van  Beek- 
man's debts  ;  the  one  it  will  be  most  difficult  to  settle. 
He  bought  the  ring  but  did  not  pay  for  it — and  then 
gambled  it  away."  With  this  he  turns  the  conversa- 
tion upon  the  affairs  of  the  late  Lord  Bassington,  telling 
her  that  his  lordship  owes  twenty  thousand  dollars — for 
Phil  can  see  the  girl  is  reproaching  herself  for  her  revela- 
tions, and  wishes  to  get  her  mind  from  this  subject 


244  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

"  So  much  ?  "  she  cries.  "  He  threw  all  that  away  ia 
a  week  ?  I'll— I'll  have  to  telegraph  Bob  !  " 

"  Not  at  all  ! "  answers  Everett.  "  All  this  can  be 
arranged  for  something  over  five  thousand." 

"  You  can  pay  twenty  thousand  with  five  thousand  ? 
Oh,  you  must  be  tricking  me  ;  you  mean  to  liquidate  the 
balance  yourself." 

"  By  no  means.  You  shall  pay  every  cent  of  Mr.  Van 
Beekman's  liabilities." 

"  With  five  thousand  dollars  ?  "  cries  the  girl,  astonish- 
ment in  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  forgot  you're  a  Wall 
Street  man.  Tell  me  how,  you  clever  financier !  I'd 
like  to  learn  your  methods ;  I'll  try  them  on  my  mil- 
liner." 

"  Very  well,"  remarks  Phil.  "  First,  you  must  lose 
everything  you  have  in  the  world — you  must  become 
bankrupt." 

"A— ah!" 

"  Then  I'll  compromise  for  you.  Most  of  the  articles 
Gussie  owes  for  are  things  that  can  be  returned — horses, 
carriages,  furniture,  jewelry,  etc.  These  I  shall  send 
back,  and  the  venders  '11  be  very  happy  to  get  them,  plus 
a  little  cash  for  their  wear  and  tear." 

"  Ah,  I  see." 

"  What  he  has  made  away  with  or  used,  and  all  money 
he  has  borrowed,  I'll  settle  in  full.  I  shall  take  this  upon 
my  hands.  Your  name  will  never  be  heard  of  in  the 
transaction,  and  when  you  find  it  convenient,  without 
even  telling  your  trustees,  you  can  repay  me  my  expen- 
diture." 

"  Oh,  you're  the  fairy  now  ! "  cries  Flossie  ;  then  she 
sends  a  thrill  of  joy  through  her  broker's  heart,  for  she 
mutters,  "  My  good  fairy  ! "  Next  she  puts  him  to  the 
torture  again,  for  she  says :  "  Add  your  commission  to 
your  bill." 

"  How  much  ?  "  asks  Phil,  glumly. 

"  Any  price  you  please,"  she  returns  airily. 

"And  you'll  pay  it?  " 

"  Of  course  !  "  indifferently. 

"Very  well.  Remember  your  promise  !"  answers  Ev- 
erett, in  so  pointed  a  tone  that,  glancing  up  at  him,  Miss 
Flossie  sees  something  in  his  eyes  that  makes  her  start 
and  blush  and  grow  very  haughty. 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  245 

Her  English  manner  comes  back  to  her  ;  she  says  in 
that  indifferent  way  which,  coming  from  a  woman,  always 
sends  a  chill  to  man  :  "  Awh  ! — I  forgot  I  was  speaking 
to  a  business  man.  Perhaps  it  is  better  you  state  your 
commission  first.  The  charge  may  be  so  high  I  shall 
have  to  employ  another  broker." 

"  My  charges  will  be  just  the  same  as  what  Bob  would 
make.  I  believe  you  placed  us  in  the  same  category  a 
few  moments  since,  Miss  Florence,"  answers  Everett, 
getting  red  in  the  face. 

"  Oh,  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  settle  that  way  ! "  re- 
marks the  girl.  "  I  always  pay  Bob  NOTHING  !  "  With 
this  she  gives  him  a  little  mocking  laugh. 

"  Very  well,  we  will  consider  the  business  settled  ! " 
says.  Phil,  making  a  move  to  depart,  for  he  is  greatly 
annoyed  at  his  client's  last  words. 

Then,  noting  that  he  is  going  away — probably  angry, 
her  visitor's  face  being  flushed,  though  his  manner  is 
formal — a  marvellous  change  takes  place  in  this  volatile 
young  lady.  She  cries :  "  Business  over,  pleasure  begins  ! 
I  was  dreading  a  lonely  evening ;  the  most  of  the  family 
are  at  the  theatre." 

"But  I've  made  a  long  call  now — perhaps  too  long  a 
one,"  answers  the  young  man,  but  half  mollified. 

"  Nonsense  !  Mr.  Everett,  my  man  of  affairs,  was 
here  before  you  on  business.  Mr.  Everett,  my  friend,  has 
just  walked  in.  I  can  call  you  my  friend — of  course  I 
can  !  You  wish  to  be  classed  with  Bob  !  "  cries  the  girl 
in  a  light,  frivolous  affectation  of  gayety  that  passes  sud- 
denly away  as  she  mutters  in  a  desperate  voice  :  "  And 
I've  got  so  few  friends  !  " 

"  So  few  friends  ?  "  gasps  Phil,  astounded. 

"  Yes,  in  New  York,"  she  cries,  "  where  I  want  so 
many.  Oh,  my  heavens  !  if  Bob  would  only  leave  the 
mine  and  come  !  "  And  wringing  her  hands,  she  sinks 
panting  upon  a  sofa,  while  Everett  gazes  at  her  with  wild 
eyes  and  throbbing  pulses,  for  the  beauty  of  this  girl  has 
been  growing  gradually  greater  all  the  evening.  The 
concealed  agitation  of  her  mind  has  been  breaking  out 
in  fits  and  starts,  like  flashes  of  electricity,  here,  there, 
everywhere,  in  her  eyes,  in  her  gestures,  in  her  poses, 
and  has  made  her  loveliness  almost  celestial. 

A  second  more  and  she  would  become  hysterical,  did 


2<0  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

Phil  give  her  time  ;  but  he  bends  over  her,  forgetting  that 
she  is  Miss  Flossie  Follis,  the  great  heiress,  and  only  re- 
membering the  little  girl  who  had  ridden  all  day  in  his 
arms  and  clung  to  his  neck  and  kissed  him  on  the  Gila 
plains. 

"  Your  cause  shall  be  my  cause  !  "  he  mutters.  Then, 
the  splendor  of  her  charms  tearing  the  senses  out  of  this 
man,  he  puts  out  an  audacious  hand,  and,  touching  the 
girl's  white  shoulder,  says  :  "  Bob's  not  here,  but  Phil  is 
ready  to  do  you  any  service  man  can  do  a  woman  !  " 

His  touch  electrifies  the  girl. 

She  rises  up,  grows  pale,  white,  haughty,  and  whispers  : 
"  I  must  be  mad,  talking  in  this  way  before  you.  Forget 
what  I've  said,  that's  the  only  favor  I  can  ask  you.  And  yet 
I  have  so  little  time,"  she  mutters;  then  breaks  out  again: 
"  To  think  that  that  awful  villain  is  growing  closer,  closer 
to  my  dear  sister  day  by  day;  that  when  he  marries  her  he 
will  be  safe  from  my  vengeance  !  " 

"  What  do  you  know  about  him?  "  cries  Phil,  eagerly, 
for  though  she  has  not  mentioned  Avonmere's  name,  he 
guesses  to  whom  she  refers. 

"  What  do  I  know  about  him  ?  Only  memories ! 
memories  !  MEMORIES  ! — an  unintelligible,  flighty,  will-o'- 
the-wisp  horror  !  That's  all  !  That's  what  makes  me  so 
desperate  !  Oh,  for  some  point  to  start  from,  something 
to  be  sure  of,  something  I  could  really  recollect  !  " 

"  Something  I  might  help  you  to  remember  ?  "  suggests 
Phil. 

"  You  ? "  cries  the  girl,  and  she  suddenly  looks  him  in 
the  face  with  searching  eyes  and  whispers  :  "  Your  voice 
seems  part  of  the  past — the  past  that  I  must  divine  be- 
fore that  man  and  woman  drive  me  out  of  society,  where 
I  can  see  him — talk  to  him — discover  his  past — expose 
him !  Oh,  what  nonsense  !  You  must  think  that  I  am 
mad  to  talk  to  you  or  any  man  in  this  way.  If  I  stay 
here  you  will  think  me  crazier  than  I  appear  to  you  even 
now  !  Good-night,  Mr.  Everett,  good-night !  "  And  she 
runs  from  the  room,  trying  to  gather  up  her  hair  that  has 
fallen  in  disorder  down  her  back,  leaving  Phil  in  a  dazed 
state,  during  which  he  staggers  from  the  house,  mutter- 
ing to  himself:  "  BY  HEAVENS,  SHE  SHALL  REMEMBER  ! ' 


MISS  NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  347 

CHAPTER   XXII. 

"  NOT    TILL    I    HAVE    A    NAME  !  " 

BUT  the  element  of  time  now  comes  into  this  affair  with 
rital  import.  Meditating  that  the  presence  of  Miss  Flossie 
is  a  standing  menace  to  his  suit  with  her  sister,  Avon- 
mere,  during  the  next  few  days,  makes  plea  to  Matilde  for 
earl}r  marriage,  stating  that  urgent  business  will  recall 
him  almost  immediately  to  England,  and  that  he  wishes 
to  take  his  bride  with  him,  as  it  will  be  almost  impossible 
for  him  to  return  to  America  for  a  number  of  months. 

This  idea,  which  he  presses  persistently,  is  supported 
by  Mrs.  Marvin  with  her  whole  heart,  and  urged  with 
every  argument  that  her  intellect  can  invent. 

Curiously,  this  proposition  also  finds  favor  with  Mrs. 
Follis,  who,  noting  how  abhorrent  the  affair  is  to  her 
younger  daughter,  thinks  the  sooner  she  gets  the  matter 
over,  the  less  chance  there  will  be  of  its  breaking  her 
Flossie's  heart ;  for  she  imagines  the  girl's  opposition 
to  Matilde's  wedding  comes  not  from  hatred  of  Avon- 
mere,  but  from  love  of  him,  and  attributes  her  drooping 
spirits  and  sad  eyes  to  jealousy  and  unrequited  affection. 

So,  in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  the  rumor  gets  about 
the  clubs  and  parlors  of  Fifth  Avenue  that  Tillie  Follis, 
the  great  Western  heiress,  is  to  be  married  to  Arthur,  Lord 
Avonmere,  during  the  coming  week.  The  ceremony  will 
be  quite  private,  and  the  bride  will  leave  with  her  hus- 
band for  England  immediately  after  its  completion. 

And  this  reaching  the  ears  of  Grousemoor,  he  comes  in 
to  Phil  one  day,  and  in  his  blunt,  sententious  way  says  : 
'•"  Are  you  ready  to  move  yet  ? " 

"  In  the  Follis  matter  ?  "  asks  Phil. 

"  Certainly." 

"  No  ;  not  for  several  days.  The  documents  are  not  all 
here  from  England,  and  Garvey  and  the  requisition  papers 
from  Colorado  and  New  Mexico  are  not  arrived." 

"  You  must  act  sooner. " 

"  Impossible  !  I  dare  not  !  I  have  too  cunning  a 
gentleman  to  deal  with,  and  can  give  him  no  warning  till 
I'm  ready  to  strike  him  down  and  crush  him  in  a  mo- 
ment !  " 


348  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

"  You  must !  " 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Because  in  protecting  one  girl  from  this  villain  you 
are  permitting  another  to  fall  into  his  clutches.  Tillie 
Follis  is  going  to  marry  Avonmere  next  week." 

"  So  soon  ?  " 

"  When  he's  her  husband,  the  other  sister's  hands  will 
be  tied.  To  gain  her  position  and  name  she  will  have  to 
strike  at  that  of  her  sister,  and  you  know  Flossie  Follis 
well  enough  to  know  that  she  will  never  do  that." 

"  The  idea  she  gave  me  the  other  night,"  mutters  Phil. 
A  moment  after  he  cries  out  suddenly  :  "  There's  but  one 
way — we  must  send  for  Abe  Follis  and  tell  him  every- 
thing ;  he  will  promise  secrecy,  and  stick  to  it.  And  if 
he's  the  man  he  used  to  be,  there  won't  be  much  chance 
of  Avonmere  putting  the  wedding-ring  on  his  daughter's 
finger,  even  with  the  incomplete  evidence  we  can  show 
him  to-day." 

"  That's  about  the  proper  form,"  answers  Grousemoor. 
"  Send  for  him  at  once." 

Which  they  do  ;  and  that  evening  to  the  astonishment 
of  Tillie,  rage  of  her  mother,  and  dismay  of  Mrs.  Mar- 
vin, Abraham  Alcibiades  Follis  strides  into  his  house  and 
plays  the  Colorado  father,  and  does  it  in  such  a  way  as 
to  produce  the  very  worst  results  both  to  Flossie  and 
Tillie. 

He  comes  home,  and  taking  the  latter  young  lady  on 
one  side,  says:  "  Matilda,  you  know  I've  been  a  good, 
square,  straight-up  dad  to  you " 

"Yes,  father,"  mutters  the  girl.  Then  she  cries  out 
suddenly:  "What's  the  matter?"  For  Abe's  manner 
and  appearance  are  of  a  kind  that  frighten  her. 

"  I — I'm  a  going  to  break  your  heart,  my  child,"  says 
the  old  man  in  a  pathetic,  faltering  tone. 

"  Break  my  heart  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  bust  it  plum,  wide  open,  as  mine  is  from  this 
day's  developments.  The  man  you  were  to  marry  can't 
have  you ! " 

"Why  not  ?     Is  Arthur  dead  ?"  gasps  the  girl. 

"  No;  them  kind  of  critters  don't  die  !  You  send  that 
engagement  ring  back  to  him,  and  tell  him  that  if  Abe 
Follis  finds  him  in  this  house  after  this,  he'll  kick  him 
out  of  it  1 " 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  349 

"  Father  t     He  —he  has  another  wife  ?  *' 

"  Not  that  I  knows  of.  I  shouldn't  have  come  to  you 
if  I'd  heerd  that  about  him.  I  should  have  gone  to 
headquarters  !  "  cries  the  frontiersman,  the  light  of  battle 
coming  into  his  eye.  "  I  wish  that  was  the  trouble ; 
that  I  could  have  settled  with  him,  and  told  about  it 
afterward,  when  he  was  planted  1 " 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"  Something  I  am  not  free  to  tell  you  about,  darter. 
Something  that's  been  proved  to  me,  and  I've  given  my 
word  not  to  tell — for  the  sake  of  your  sister." 

"  Your  word  not  to  tell  me  ? — of  the  slanders  about  my 
affianced  husband,  made  behind  his  back  ? — for  the  sake 
of  my  sister  ?"  answers  Matilde,  a  cruel  ring  in  her  voice 
on  the  last  phrase.  Then  her  head,  which  had  been 
drooping,  becomes  erect  and  haughty,  and  fire  springs 
into  her  eyes. 

"  'Tain't  no  good  getting  obstreperous,  Tillie,"  contin- 
ues her  father.  "  You  jist  take  that  scoundrel's  ring  off 
your  finger  right  now  !  " 

"  Your  reasons  ?  " 

"  I  can't  give  'em  at  present !  Take  off  that  ring !  I'll 
get  you  another,  bigger  and  prettier  than  that." 

"  Never,  dad !  never !  I've  given  my  word  to  the 
man  you  call  a  villain.  Prove  him  one,  and  I'll  take  back 
my  promise." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  I've  given  my  promise  ?  What 
makes  you  so  sassy  ?  That  ring  !  Quick  !  " 

Abe  has  risen  with  sorrow  and  indignation  in  his  eyes 
— sorrow  at  having  to  destroy  his  daughter's  happiness, 
indignation  that  she  will  not  obey  him,  and  destroy  it 
herself.  *  Obey  me  ! "  he  cries.  "  You  know  what  I  say 
is  law  in  this  house." 

"  Not  with  mother  in  it  I  "  cries  his  daughter  back  at 
him,  and  flies  to  Rach's  protecting  arms  with  a  laugh 
on  her  lips,  but  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Embraced  by  her  mother,  she  sobs  out  that  for  Flossie's 
sake  her  father — her  own  father — has  commanded  her  to 
give  up  the  man  she  loves  ;  for  Avonmere  persecuted  she 
feels  should  be  called  that 

"  'Tain't  for  Bob,  Floss  has  set  her  father  agin  you 
now,  my  persecuted  lamb,"  cries  Rach. 

Then  she  lifts  up  her  voice  and  calls  out:  "  Abe  Follit? 


«50  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

A-BRA-HAM  AL-CI-BI-A-DES  FOL-LIS  ! "  in  a  manner  thai 
echoes  through  the  hallways  of  the  great  house,  and 
makes  its  owner  and  potentate  grow  pale  and  sickly,  and 
shiver  in  his  boots. 

He  stands  his  ground,  however,  and  the  stalwart  Rach 
finds  the  Colorado  father  is  also  a  Roman  one. 

To  her  questions,  arguments,  and  attacks,  he  simply 
says  :  "  I've  heard  enough  about  that  lordling  to  make 
me  say  that  no  darter  of  mine  can  marry  him.  I  do  it 
for  Tillie's  sake.  You'll  thank  me  for  it  afore  long,  Rach, 
so  will  my  girl." 

"  What's  your  reasons  ?  What's  Flossie  been  saying 
to  you  ?  "  cries  his  spouse.  "  Are  you  two  in  together 
to  break  poor  Tillie's  heart  ?  " 

"  No,"  says  Abe  shortly  ;  "  Flossie  has  had  nothing  to 
do  with  this.  She's  all  a  good  loving  sister  should  be  to 
Tillie,  and  a  true,  loving  darter  to  both  of  us.  Don't 
you  trouble  the  child  about  this  'ere  matter,  or  by  the 
Kentucky  Major  !  you'll  hear  from  Abraham  Alcibiades 
Follis !  " 

"  If  you've  any  good  reasons  for  breaking  your  daugh- 
ter's heart,  you'll  give  'em  if  you're  a  man,  and  not 
sneak  away  to  your  Hoffman  House  gang  ! "  screams 
Rach  in  rage  and  anger. 

For  having  said  his  say,  her  helpmeet  has  suddenly 
seized  his  hat,  stepped  out  of  his  front  door,  and  is  now 
on  his  way  down  the  avenue. 

This  he  has  done  not  from  terror  of  his  wife,  but 
from  fear  that  under  her  questions  he  may  break  his 
promise  to  Everett,  and  divulge  secrets  that  may  destroy 
Flossie's  chance  of  gaining  what  he  thinks  are  his 
adopted  daughter's  rights. 

So,  going  to  the  Hoffman  House,  he  writes  a  letter  to 
Lord  Avonmere,  charging  that  young  man,  as  he  values 
his  personal  safety,  never  to  enter  his  house  again, 
or  dare  to  speak  to  his  daughter  Matilda  Thompkins 
Follis. 

Then  making  a  night  of  it  with  Hank  Daily  and  other 
mining  men,  he  does  not  appear  at  his  home  this  evening, 
to  the  anger  and  solicitude  of  his  spouse,  who  fears  her 
Abe  is  going  out  of  his  head  in  this  wicked  city. 

Now,  this  letter  of  Mr.  Follis,  being  delivered  to  Avon- 
mere  by  a  messenger  boy,  produces  sudden  consternation 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  25! 

in  that  gentleman.  He  is  not  afraid  of  the  mining  man's 
threats  of  personal  violence,  but  he  is  very  much  afraid 
Follis  will  withhold  or  curtail  the  gigantic  marriage  settle- 
ment he  has  expected  with  his  daughter.  He  mutters  to 
himself:  "The  widow  must  straighten  this,"  and  sends 
a  note  to  Mrs.  Marvin,  begging  her  to  be  at  the  opera 
this  evening. 

And  finding  her  alone  in  the  Follis  box,  Miss  Tillie  not 
having  the  spirits  to  be  present,  and  Miss  Flossie  having 
another  engagement,  he  and  the  wily  Mrs.  Marvin  have 
an  awful  discussion. 

For  this  female  social  diplomat  has  worked  upon  Rach's 
rage  against  her  husband,  and  Tillie's  idea  of  her  father's 
unreasonable  interference  in  her  love  affair,  until  they 
have  come  to  an  understanding,  in  secret  conclave,  that, 
in  a  glow  of  triumph,  she  lays  before  Avonmere,  and 
to  her  astonishment  and  rage  he  refuses  the  arrange- 
ment. 

After  a  long  consultation,  over  which  they  become  so 
excited,  that  were  it  not  for  the  roar  of  the  Wagnerian 
orchestra,  a  great  deal  of  Avonmere's  and  Miss  Tillie's 
romance  would  become  the  property  of  the  adjoining 
boxes ;  at  the  close  of  the  first  act  the  gentleman  takes 
Mrs.  Marvin  down  to  her  carriage. 

As  he  assists  her  in,  she  whispers  to  him  in  a  voice 
hoarse  with  rage :  "  You  must  marry  her  without  a  settle- 
ment ! " 

"  Without  a  settlement  I  marry  nobody  ! "  is  his  reply; 
and  he  feels  for  a  cigar. 

"  You  needn't  light  that,"  she  says,  "  I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

"  We've  discussed  the  affair  pretty  thoroughly  already," 
he  answers.  "I  see  no  need  of  going  over  the  matter," 
and  coolly  lights  his  weed,  to  show  her  this  interview  is 
at  an  end. 

"  Throw  that  thing  away  and  get  in  with  me,"  she 
says  with  equal  coolness,  though  there  is  a  nasty  ring  in 
her  voice. 

"  And  why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about — place  you* 
ear  nearer  mine." 

Something  in  her  manner  induces  him  to  do  as  sht 
directs. 


252  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

Then  this  old  social  general  whispers  a  few  words,  anfi 
suddenly  stops  and  says,  "  Hush  !  Remember  whom  you 
are  talking  to."  For  the  English  peer  has  uttered  undef 
his  breath  an  awful  oath.  "  Now,  if  you  think  it  worth 
while  to  discuss  the  matter  further,  step  in  the  carriage 
and  drive  home  with  me  ;  there's  something  in  the  Follis 
house  I  want  to  show  you." 

And  her  whisper  has  been  so  potent  that  he  obeys  her 
without  a  word,  and  the  two  drive  to  637  Fifth  Avenue 
in  silence,  though  each  is  thinking  very  deeply. 

"You  need  not  regard  Abe  Follis's  letter,  Avonmere," 
says  the  lady  as  the  carriage  draws  up  ;  "  you  are  my 
guest,  and  enter  this  house  at  my  invitation." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  him  !  "  answers  the  Englishman 
lightly,  which  is  true,  for  there  is  no  lack  of  personal 
courage  in  his  composition.  With  this,  he  assists  Mrs. 
Marvin  out  of  the  equipage,  and  silently  follows  her  up 
the  steps,  into  the  room  in  which  he  has  first  been  received 
by  Tillie  Follis.  This  is  dimly  lighted. 

Without  a  word  she  turns  up  every  gas-burner  to  brill- 
iant illumination. 

"  For  what  did  you  do  that  ?"  he  asks  astonished. 

"Because  I  want  to  see  your  face  when  I  show  you  a 
picture."  She  throws  open  the  portfolio  of  Colorado 
views,  and  exclaims  :  "  The  canon  of  the  Baby  mine ! 
You're  as  white  as  when  you  first  saw  it,  and  the  recollec- 
tion of  it  nearly  gave  your  British  nonchalance  a  fit  !  Do 
you  want  me  to  explain  to  you  why  you  nearly  fainted 
when  you  first  beheld  Flossie  Follis  ?  Ah,  that  hits  you 
hard  !  You  don't  like  the  two  mentioned  together! "  for 
at  her  insinuation  Avonmere  has  sunk  into  a  chair,  with 
lips  that  tremble  and  cheeks  that  grow  white. 

"  Do  you  want  me  for  a  friend  or  an  enemy  ? "  she  goes 
on  rapidly.  "  Will  you  marry  Tillie  without  a  settlement  ? 
and  trust  that  her  mother  will  see  that  she  is  as  gener- 
ously provided  for  as  if  you  had  her  father's  sign-manual 
to  any  document  that  lawyers  can  draw  up  ?  Don't  you 
know  he  loves  his  daughter,  and  when  you  have  his  heart 
in  your  grasp  you  can  bleed  his  poctet  ?  " 

"  You  put  it  quite  strongly  ! "  mutters  Avonmere,  still 
agitated. 

"  Besides,  the  girl  is  beautiful  ;  you  love  her  !  Shai' 
we  be  friends,  or  shall  I " 


MISS   NOBODY   OP   NOWHERE.  S$3 

"  No  I  -  he  say*  shortly.  "  You  shall  not !  We  are 
friends  !  " 

"  Then  in  proof  of  our  friendship  you  will  sign  this," 
she  goes  on,  growing  commanding  as  he  grows  pliable, 
and  places  a  document  under  his  eyes. 

"  It  is  only  a  letter  from  you  to  secure  me  for  my  kind 
ness  to  you,"  she  remarks.  "  It  proves  that  I  believe  thor- 
oughly in  Tillie's  dower  being  as  certain  as  if  her  father 
turned  over  his  securities  to  you  now.  In  proof  of  my 
faith  I  have  raised  the  stipulated  reward  to  ten  per  cent, 
of  any  money  coming  to  you  on  account  of  your  future 
wife.  Sign  ! "  she  has  already  a  pen  in  her  hand  and  is 
holding  it  to  him. 

But  he  dashes  it  aside  with  a  muttered  curse,  and  says: 
"  Never  ! " 

"  Sign !  It  is  your  last  chance  to  wed  Tillie  Follis 
and  her  millions  !  SIGN  !  or  I  walk  upstairs  and  tell  her 
mother  what  I  know  of  you,  and  she'll  drive  you  out  of 
her  house  !  Besides,  Miss  Flossie,  your  enemy — the 
little  girl  you  like  so  much — she'll  be  pleased  to  hear  the 
news  !  " 

And  she  would  mock  him  and  be  merry  with  him  ;  but 
he  seizes  the  pen,  signs  the  letter,  and  says  :  "  Now,  your 
part  of  the  agreement !  " 

"  With  pleasure.  You  shall  see  Mrs.  Follis  at  once." 
And  going  into  the  hall  on  her  way  to  the  Western  matron, 
this  old  female  Machiavelli  chuckles  to  herself  :  "  That 
fool  Avonmere — he  was  dodging  bullets  when  I  was  fir- 
ing blank  cartridges.  I  wonder  why  Baby  mine  canon 
and  that  waif  of  the  wilderness  frighten  him  so  much  ? 
It's  something  awful.  If  I  could  only  discover ! "  Then 
she  mutters  suddenly:  "  No  !  There  are  some  things  better 
left  in  the  indefinite." 

As  for  her  customer,  he  thinks  the  matter  over,  and  is 
rather  pleased  with  the  arrangement  after  all.  He  loves 
the  girl  as  well  as  he  can  love  any  woman.  With  her 
heart  in  his  grasp  he  has  her  father's  purse  also.  Be- 
sides, if  the  younger  sister  loves  the  elder,  his  marriage 
will  be  an  eternal  barrier  against  her  claim  or  her  revenge. 

"  Egad  !  "  thinks  this  easy-going  scoundrel,  "  Marvin's 
medicine  may  be  the  best  I  can  take  under  the  circum- 
stances." 

With  this  he  rises,  and  greets,  in  his  polished  way,  the 


»54  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

stalwart  Rachel,  who  has  been  awaiting  Mrs.  Marvin's 
report,  and  who  now  enters  with  her. 

THEN  THE  THREE  SIT  DOWN  AND  MAP  OUT  THE  VARI- 
OUS DETAILS  OF  AN  ARRANGEMENT  THAT,  COULD  HE 
HAVE  KNOWN  IT,  WOULD  HAVE  SENT  ABRAHAM  ALCI- 
BIADES  FOLLIS  OF  COLORADO  ON  THE  WAR-PATH  WITH 
GUN  AND  PISTOL. 

Arising  from  this  conference,  Rachel  remarks  :  "  I'm 
sorry  things  couldn't  have  been  done  different  and  more 
in  symmetery  with  our  pos-sish ;  but  Abe  has  been  contrary 
ever  since  he  got  with  that  Hoffman  House  gang,  and  to- 
day he  went  on  as  if  he'd  gone  plump  out  of  his  head. 
This  stand  of  mine  '11  put  the  senses  into  him  agin." 

"  Yes,"  answers  Avonmere,  pleasantly,  "  I  rather  imag- 
ine this  will  be  a  surprise  to  Mr.  Follis.  Any  more  sur- 
prises for  me,  my  dear  Mrs.  Marvin  ? " 

"  But  one,"  says  the  old  diplomat.  Then  she  laughs, 
"Go  into  the  next  room;  she's  there  expecting  you. 
That's  what  you  get  for  being  a  good  boy. " 

"Yes,"  says  Rach  ;  "you  can  talk  to  her  but  ten  min- 
utes. The  child's  worn  put  with  her  dad's  cuttings  up, 
and  ought  to  have  been  in  bed  along  ago." 

"  Agreed  !  "  cries  Avonmere.  And  opening  a  neigh- 
boring door  he  finds  himself  face  to  face  with  \\isfiancfr, 
whose  beauty  and  loveliness  make  him  forget  that  his 
heiress  is  still  unportioned,  for  Matilde  Follis  to-nighi 
seems  more  alluring  than  ever  to  this  man  whose  love 
for  her  money  is  half  forgotten  in  his  passion  for  herself. 

Robed  in  some  white  clinging  thing,  her  manner, 
tempered  with  the  anxieties  this  afternoon  has  left  upon 
her,  and  the  hopes  and  fears  this  night  has  brought 
to  her,  her  vivacious  eyes  drooping  before  the  being 
she  thinks  she  will  soon  call  husband,  her  cheeks  covered 
with  the  blushes  of  surrendering  and  conquered  woman- 
hood, Matilde  makes  a  picture  that  causes  Avonmere's 
dark  eyes  to  flash,  and  his  Italian  pulses  to  bound.  He 
really  thinks  he  loves  his  sweetheart. 

Shortly  after  this,  being  compelled  to  go  by  the  in?.' 
placable  Rachel,  who  makes  him  stand  to  his  contract, 
the  gentleman  comes  into  the  hall,  and  finds  Mrs.  Marvin 
waiting  for  him  ;  she  has  a  smile  of  contentment  on  hef 
matronly  face,  being  pretty  certain  Matilde 's  beauty  has 
destroyed  any  regret  her  customer  may  have  had  at 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  «55 

the  ^oods  she  is  delivering  to  him  not  being  exactly  as 
invoiced. 

She  murmurs  :  "  Is  she  not  beautiful  ?  Are  you  not 
glad  you  threw  away  your  cigar  and  came  with  me  this 
evening,  young  man  ?" 

"  Very,"  answers  Avonmere.  "  But  with  your  permis- 
sion I'll  light  another  to  help  me  on  my  walk  home." 
As  he  does  so  he  remarks  casually :  "  You've  done 
what  you  promised  in  regard  to  our  pretty  little  oppo- 
nent ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  whispers  Mrs.  Marvin.  "  It's  in  the  clubs; 
it's  in  the  air  ;  the  women  are  all  talking.  Miss  Flossie 
Follis  will  soon  be  longing  for  the  genial  climate  of 
Denver." 

"  Yes,"  he  sneers  ;  "  your  sex  are  not  generally  kind  to 
an  heiress  and  a  beauty  when  she  can't  tell  who  papa 
and  mamma  are.  I've  given  our  gossips  another  and 
stronger  rumor  in  regard  to  Flossie's  origin." 

"  What  is  that  ? "  asks  Mrs.  Marvin,  eagerly. 

He  whispers  a  few  words  in  the  lady's  ear  that  make 
her  gasp  with  astonished  horror.  "  How  do  you  like 
that,  Madame  Machiavelli  ?  "  he  laughs,  and  goes  whis- 
tling merrily  on  his  way. 

Suddenly  he  pauses,  looks  across  the  street,  and  mut- 
ters :  "  By  George  ! "  for  on  the  opposite  sidewalk,  too 
much  engrossed  to  notice  him,  Miss  Florence  Follis,  in  a 
pretty  walking  dress,  is  coming  up  the  avenue  on  the  arm 
of  Philip  Everett. 

Though  Avonmere  does  not  know  it,  the  very  matter 
he  and  Miss  Marvin  have  been  sneering  about  has  pro- 
duced their  tete-d-t£te. 

For  the  last  few  days  the  Bostonian  has  been  perfect- 
ing his  plans.  The  affidavits  from  England  have  just 
arrived,  having  been  hurried  by  cable  without  thought 
of  expense.  They  are  exactly  what  he  wishes,  and  he 
only  waits  the  coming  of  Garvey  and  a  deputy  sheriff 
from  Colorado  with  certain  requisitions  from  the  gov- 
ernor of  that  State,  and  similar  documents  from  the 
head  executive  officer  of  New  Mexico,  to  open  his  bat- 
teries. 

Very  much  engaged,  he  still  has  found  time  to  drop 
in  at  various  society  functions  where  he  has  thought 
it  probable  the  young  lady  whose  cause  he  has  espoused 


256  MISS  NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

may  be  found ;  and  in  this,  as  in  most  other  matters  ha 
has  attempted  lately,  has  met  with  a  fair  amount  ot 
success. 

And  though  he  has  seen  the  object  of  his  anxiety  and 
devotion,  the  results  of  his  interviews  have  hardly  been 
of  a  nature  to  cause  him  extraordinary  delight  or  self- 
confidence. 

In  fact,  from  the  time  of  her  peculiar  interview  with 
him,  Miss  Flossie  has  seemed  to  dread  any  approach  to  a 
t£te-d,-t£ie,  and  by  various  feminine  devices  has  held  Mr. 
Everett  at  arm's  length.  Once,  driven  to  it  by  Phil's 
persistence,  she  has  almost  snubbed  her  devoted  follower, 
though  she  has  done  it  in  a  shame-faced  way  and  with 
eyes  that  begged  his  pardon  as  she  check-mated  the 
gentleman's  move  which  would  have  compelled  her  to 
sit  out  a  dance  with  him  in  Mrs.  Van  Courtland's  conser- 
vatory during  a/efe  at  that  lady's  hospitable  house. 

During  this  time,  whenever  Phil  has  seen  the  girl,  he 
has  noticed  that  some  new  feeling  seems  to  dominate  her. 

Her  appearance  is  that  of  a  woman  struggling  with 
something  so  illusive  and  intangible  that  she  cannot 
do  battle  with  it,  though  she  feels  its  malign  influence  ; 
and  as  time  goes  on,  this  contest  apparently  becomes 
harder. 

On  Monday  she  has  been  haughty  and  erect;  on 
Tuesday,  angrily  defiant ;  on  Wednesday,  for  he  sees 
her  this  evening  at  a  fashionable  fair  given  for  some 
charity  or  other  at  Sherry's,  she  seems  haughtier  than 
ever  ;  though  at  times,  her  guard  on  herself  relaxing,  her 
beautiful  eyes  have  an  appeal  in  them. 

Phil  at  first  proudly  thinks  to  himself  alone.  But 
watching  the  young  lady,  to  his  astonishment  he  finds  the 
girl's  pathetic  glances  are  turned  most  generally  to  women, 
and  have,  he  thinks,  been  met  quite  often  by  ill-concealed 
sneers. 

"What  the  devil's  the  matter  with  her?"  asks  her 
observer  to  himself.  A  moment  after,  this  is  answered 
by  Mr.  Gussie,  who  comes  beside  him. 

"  I've  been  trying  to  see  you,  old  man,"  says  the  little 
gentleman.  "  It's  been  awfully  kind  the  way  you  man- 
aged my  settlement  with  my  creditors,  and  put  in  a  word 
for  me  with  the  governing  committee  at  the  Stuyvesant 
!  can  hardly  thank  you  enough." 


MISS   NOEODY    OF    NOWHERE  257 

"  Thank  that  young  lady  there,"  answers  Phil,  glancing 
at  Miss  Flossie. 

"  Yaas,  but  she  won't  let  me,  yer  know  ;  appears  not 
to  remember  my  face  ;  looks  at  me  as  if  she'd  never  seen 
me  before  ;  cuts  me  dead  !  I  should  think  a  fellow  feel- 
ing would  make  her  kinder  this  evening." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  whispers  Everett,  eagerly. 

"  Why,  haven't  you  heard  the  rumors  ?  They've  been 
about  the  clubs  and  everywhere  for  the  last  few  days  ; 
they're  getting  more  pronounced,  I  can  tell  you.  Poor 
little  devil  !  did  you  see  her  wince  then  ?  Mrs.  Farnam 
Van  Cott  cut  her  dead,  and  I  saw  that  woman  try  to  kiss 
her  the  night  of  the  Patriarchs.  Both  Miss  Flossie's  and 
my  social  booms  have  busted  since  that  night." 

"What  do  they  say  about  her,"  cries  Phil,  "that 
makes  that  old  harridan  dare  to  insult  my — "  he  sud- 
denly checks  himself,  and  mutters :  "  Tell  me  the  ru- 
mors." 

"  But  you  mightn't  like  'em." 

"  Tell  me  every  one  of  them  ! " 

"  Yaas  ;  but  you  look  as  if  you'd  hold  me  responsible 
for  them  if  I  did  !  " 

tt  I  shall  hold  you  responsible  for  them  if  you  dortt? 
says  Everett,  forcing  a  smile. 

"  Well,  then,  first  it  was  reported  that  the  girl  is  an 
adopted  daughter  with  no  known  parents  at  all.  Now  it 
is  rumored — mind  you,  only  rumored — don't  be  angry — 
that  she  is  old  Abe  Follis's  child  ;  but  her  mother — well, 
her  mother  is  Dutch  Kate  of  Aspen.  That's  the  reason 
they  say  old  Abe  has  put  so  much  property  in  Miss 
Flossie's  name  ;  that's  the  reason  he  has  such  rows  with 
his  wife  that  he  don't  dare  go  home  and  bunks  at  the 
Hoffman.  There's  another  chap  mixed  up  in  it  some- 
now,  called  Bob.  Nobody  seems  exactly  to  know  how 
he  comes  in  ;  it's  all  rumor,  don't  yer  see.  But  Sammy 
Tomkins,  who's  been  over  the  Denver  and  Rio  Grande 
twice,  says  he's  seen  Dutch  Kate,  and  Flossie  Follis  is  hef 
living  image,  only  thinner  of  course  ;  Dutch  Kate's  fatter 
than  old  woman  Marvin,  and  weighs  three  hundred. 
Now  don't  go  running  against  windmills,  old  Chappie. 
Keep  cool !  "  For  Phil's  face  appalls  him  at  this  mo- 
ment 

'  I  will  keep  cool,'*  he  answers  ;  a  second's  thought 
w 


958  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

telling  him  with  what  crafty  deftness  the  facts  have  beea 
made  to  support  the  lies  in  what  has  been  told  him. 
"  You'd  better  tell  Sammy  Tomkins  not  to  let  Abe  Follis 
hear  his  description  of  Dutch  Kate  of  Aspen,  or  he'll 
need  a  tombstone,"  he  shoots  out  at  Gussie. 

Then  he  strides  up  to  the  persecuted  one,  who,  on  see- 
ing him,  grows  haughty,  and  says  nonchalantly,  "  Good 
evening,  Mr.  Everett,  you  don't  seem  to  be  charitably 
disposed  to-night." 

"  Why  ?  "  asks  Phil. 

"  Oh,  I've  been  looking  at  you,"  answers  the  girl,  mak- 
ing an  attempt  at  a  smile,  "and  you've  kept  persistently 
where  there's  lots  of  talking,  but  no  business." 

"  Come  and  direct  my  business  efforts.  I  thought  you 
were  to  be  in  the  flower  booth." 

"  So  I  was — but — "  here  Flossie's  voice  falters  despite 
herself,  her  head  droops,  her  eyes  look  ashamed,  and  she 
mutters  :  "  There  was  some  misunderstanding  about  the 
matter,  and  I — I — "  A  moment  after,  some  sudden  res- 
olution seems  to  come  to  the  girl.  She  says  :  "  Will  you 
do  me  a  great  favor  ?  " 

"  Certainly — anything  ! " 

"  Then  take  me  home.  The  night  is  fine,  the  distance 
not  far.  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,  and  Mrs.  Shelton 
won't  be  sorry  to  get  rid  of  me."  Her  voice  is  a  little 
bitter  as  she  speaks  of  the  lady  under  whose  wing  she  has 
come. 

For  answer  Phil  silently  offers  his  arm,  and  taking  her 
to  her  chaperon,  Miss  Flossie  states  her  errand,  and  finds 
that  lady,  who  invited  her  a  week  ago  in  the  height  of  her 
social  success,  is  very  happy  to  do  without  her  company, 
now  a  cloud  has  come  upon  the  glory  of  the  debutante. 

So  they  pass  out  of  the  place,  Phil  catching  a  remark 
or  two  in  the  crowd,  that  makes  the  young  lady  on  his 
arm  shiver. 

"  The  beautiful  Miss  Nobody  of  Nowhere  !  "  he  hears 
in  a  man's  voice  ;  and  shortly  afterwards  :  "  They  say 
she's  the  image  of  her  mother,  Dutch  Kate  of  Aspen," 
in  a  woman's  tones,  with  a  cruel  little  giggle  behind  it. 

But  there  is  only  a  moment  of  this,  and  Everett  thanks 
Heaven  as  he  gets  the  girl  to  the  sidewalk. 

Then  she  turns,  lets  the  breeze  play  about  her  head  a 
moment,  and  taking  a  long  breath  of  relief  says  quietly  • 


MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  259 

M  I  suppose  you  know  what  they  are  saying  about  me  in 
there  ? " 

"  The  miserable  cowards  ! "  bursts  forth  Phil.  "  I  rec- 
ognized the  man  who  made  one  of  the  remarks,"  and  he 
turns  as  if  to  go  back. 

But  she  puts  a  detaining  hand  on  his  arm,  and  whispers: 
"  Hush  !  From  ladies  and  gentlemen  to-day  I  have  re< 
ceived  more  punctilious  kindness  than  ever  ;  from  the 
rest— what  matters  it  ?  Besides,"  they  are  walking  along 
the  street  now,  "  no  man  can  protect  a  woman  without 
compromising  her  unless  he  is  her  husband — or " 

She  pauses  suddenly,  for  Everett  interjects  :  "  Or  her 
affianced.  Let  me  act  for  you  as  that  ?  " 

As  he  speaks,  the  girl's  hand  is  suddenly  withdrawn 
from  his  arm,  and  she  moves  a  little  away  from  him. 

For  a  moment  she  walks  by  his  side  in  silence  ;  then 
suddenly  turns  to  him,  looks  him  in  the  face,  and  mocks 
both  herself  and  him  by  sneering  :  "  Ah,  the  third  offer 
I've  had  to-day !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asks  Phil,  astonished. 

"This,"  she  says  lightly,  but  sarcastically  :  "two  men 
before  you  offered  me  their  names  because  I  had  none  of 
my  own — creatures  who  would  not  have  dared  to  raise 
their  eyes  to  me  but  for  rumors  that  malign  the  memory  of 
my  mother,  and  throw  a  slur  upon  as  true  a  man  as  ever 
breathed,  Abe  Follis,  who  took  me  to  his  generous  heart 
when  I  was  orphaned  and  deserted  !  These  things  offered 
me  marriage,  hoping  despair  would  make  me  throw  self 
and  fortune  into  their  arms.  Now  you,  whom  I  respect, 
make  me  the  same  offer  from  pity.  Is  that  not  equally 
humiliating  ?  " 

"  From  pity  ?  from  love  !  "  whispers  Everett,  trying  to 
get  her  little  hand  in  his. 

But  she  draws  away,  and  asks  herself  almost  savagely, 
"  Would  you  have  said  this  to  me  to-night  did  not  these 
rumors  float  about  me  ?  " 

"  No ! " 

"  A-ah  !  "  This  is  a  faint  sigh,  hardly  audible  to  Phil, 
though  it  makes  his  heart  beat  very  fast. 

"  But  I  should  have  asked  it  soon  !  Love  would  have 
opened  my  lips  before  long.  Your  answer,  darling,  to  my 
question  ?  "  he  cries. 

But  the  girl  cries  back:  "  Pough !    You  are  mad ' 


3<50  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

Who'd  marry  a  girl  without  a  name,  who  should,  by  the 
custom  of  the  world,  be  an  OUTCAST  !  And  if  you  would, 
I've  too  much  pride  to  accept  such  sacrifice.  No  man 
shall  talk  to  me  of  marrying  or  giving  in  marriage  till  I 
HAVE  A  NAME  !  I  had  intended  to  ask  you  something, 
but  your  question  has  stopped  mine.  I  shall  fight  my 
battle  as  best  I  can,  till  he  gets  my  darling  Tillie,  or — 
Pshaw  !  I'm  beginning  to  rave  again  !  It's  lucky  we  are 
at  my  doorstep." 

"And  you'll  give  me  no  more  answer  than  this  ?  "  asks 
Phil,  chewing  his  mustache  savagely,  partly  at  his  own 
faux  pas,  and  partly  at  his  charmer's  hauteur. 

"  Neither  to  you  nor  to  any  man,  while  I'm  Miss  Nobody 
of  Nowhere  ! — Forgive  me  !  "  whispers  the  girl.  Then 
she  flies  up  the  stairs  and  into  her  house,  as  if  afraid  to 
let  him  press  her  further. 

But  he  runs  after  her,  and  catching  a  little  hand  as  it 
is  hurriedly  closing  the  door,  whispers  :  "  What  did  you 
mean  by  '  forgive  me '  ?  * 

"  Please  let  go  !  " 

"  Not  till  you  answer  !  " 

"What  I  meant,"  says  the  girl,  excitedly,  and  still 
struggling,  "  was  an  apology  from  Miss  Flossie  Follis 
because  Miss  Nobody  of  Nowhere  was  so  haughty  to 
you.  O-o-oh  ! " 

For  Phil  has  suddenly  imprinted  a  long,  lingering, 
fervent  kiss  on  the  one  hand  of  both  the  young  ladies 
mentioned,  and  has  gone  down  the  steps  whistling  as 
merrily  as  Avonmere  did  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before. 


CHAPTER  XXIIL 
MRS.  WARBURTON'S  CIRCUS. 

GETTING  to  the  Brevoort,  he  meets  Grousemoor,  who 
ss  by  this  time  nearly  as  interested  as  Everett  in  Miss  Flos- 
sie's affairs,  and  comes  in  from  the  club  with  a  fiown 
upon  his  face. 

"What's  the  matter,  old  man? "says  Phil  lightly,  in 
confident  good  humor. 

"  This/'  returns  the  peer  sententiously  :  "  that  Italia* 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  26l 

scoundrel  has  gone  to  circulating  rumors  about  the  girl 
that'll  perhaps  drive  her  to  suicide  if  she  hears  them, 
which  she's  bound  to  soon,  for  the  women  have  got  to 
talking  about  her  and  snubbing  her,  I  understand." 

"  She's  already  heard  them,"  answers  Everett,  his  face 
growing  black.  "  But  there's  no  danger  of  suicide  ;  Miss 
Flossie's  made  of  sterner  stuff." 

And  he  gives  his  companion  an  account  of  his  inter- 
view with  the  young  lady ;  then  says  with  a  sigh :  "  I 
wish  I  could  make  things  easier  for  her." 

"  You  can't,"  replies  Grousemoor,  "  but  your  sister 
and  Mrs.  Willis  can.  Under  their  wing,  society  would 
treat  her  differently  than  when  protected  by  that  widow 
Marvin,  who  only  half  likes  the  girl  anyway,  I  imagine. 
—Mrs.  Willis  and  your  sister  are  up-stairs  now." 

"  Then  let's  broach  the  matter  to  them  at  once,"  sug- 
gests Everett. 

So  they  go  up  to  that  young  lady's  pretty  parlor, 
where  Phil  blurts  out :  "  Bessie,  I've  a  favor  to  ask  you 
and  Mrs.  Willis.  Will  you  not  ask  Miss  Flossie  Follis 
to  go  with  you  to  a  few  entertainments  this  week  ? " 

At  this  question,  the  maid  and  the  matron  look  at 
each  other  in  a  peculiar  way.  Then  his  sister  says  :  "  I'd 
like  to  accommodate  you  if  possible,  Philip,  but — "  here 
she  blushes  a  little,  glances  at  Grousemoor,  and  con- 
tinues :  "  You  know  I've  so  much  to  do  to  get  ready  for 
— for  Boston." 

"  The  idea  of  asking  a  young  lady  agitated  by  her 
trousseau  to  think  of  anything  else  ! "  chimes  in  Mrs. 
Willis.  "  I'd  take  the  duty  off  her  hands  if  I  were  going 
out  myself  much." 

Then  Everett,  who  has  a  point-blank  way  with  him, 
bursts  out  suddenly  and  gloomily  :  "  That  means  you 
have  heard  the  infernal  lies  about  that  persecuted  girl, 
and  believe  them  !  " 

At  this,  Mrs.  Willis  gives  a  little  startled  "  Oh  !  "  and 
his  sister  says  quickly :  "  How  do  you  know  they  are 
false  ? — and  you,  too,  Grousemoor  ?  "  looking  inquiringly 
at  both  the  men  ;  for  her  fiance"  has  just  backed  up  Phil's 
speech  by  "  It's  a  thundering  shame  !  " 

A  moment  after,  Miss  Bessie  goes  on  :  "  You  two  seem 
the  champions  of  this  young  lady." 

"  Certainly,"  answers  the  nobleman. 


?62  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

At  this  his  sweetheart  gives  out  a  little  affrighted 
"  Ah  ! "  and  looks  somewhat  horrified,  slightly  jealous, 
and  very  curious. 

"  It's  no  use,  Phil.  To  have  their  aid,  we'll  have  to 
trust  them  with  our  mystery,"  mutters  Grousemoor. 

"  A  mystery  !  "  cry  both  the  ladies  in  one  voice. 

Then  Miss  Bessie  says  :  "  Oh,  that's  been  the  cause  of 
your  private  conferences,  secret  cables,  and  numerous 
telegrams  for  the  last  ten  days !  That's  the  reason  I've 
so  little  of  either  brother  or  lover !  "  and  she  gives  her 
nobleman  such  reproachful  glances  that  he  laughingly 
cries  :  "  Out  with  it,  Phil !  Quick,  for  your  sister's 
peace  of  mind  !  " 

"  Very  well,"  answers  her  brother.  "  'Now  listen,  and 
remember,  as  you  are  women,  this  is  a  secret." 

"  A  SECRET  !  "  and  both  ladies  become  greatly  ex- 
cited. 

"  A  secret  that  you  must  keep — one  I  have  half  a  mind 
not  to  tell  you." 

"  Rather  than  that,"  cries  Mrs.  Willis,  "  I'll  promise 
anything !  " 

"Amputate  my  tongue  if  you  like,  only  leave  my  ears  I" 
gasps  Bessie  eagerly. 

"  All  right,"  says  Phil,  "  prepare  to  use  them  !  " 

And  sitting  down,  he  tells  the  whole  affair  as  far  as 
it  has  progressed,  together  with  his  plans  for  the  con- 
founding of  Avonmere  and  the  righting  of  Miss  Flossie 
Follis. 

To  his  wondrous  tale  Mrs.  Willis  listens  almost  in 
unbelief. 

But  as  he  goes  on,  his  sister  breaks  out  into  little  cries 
of  astonishment  and  interest. 

Finally,  on  his  producing  affidavits  received  from 
England,  stating  that  the  proof  of  Florence  Beatrice 
Stella  Willoughby,  Lady  Avonmere's  death  had  been 
chiefly  made  by  an  official  record  given  under  the  coroner's 
seal,  with  an  account  of  the  inquest  on  her  body,  together 
with  those  of  her  father  and  mother,  which  took  place  at 
the  towi:  of  Lordsburgh,  in  Grant  County,  New  Mexico, 
in  the  month  of  June,  1881  ;  and  that  the  verdict  of  the 
coroner's  jury  had  been  that  the  said  Florence  Willoughby 
had  received  her  death  at  the  hands  of  one  Nana  and  his 
band  of  renegade  Apaches  and  other  persons  unknown  ? 


MISS    NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  263 

she  suddenly  cries :  "  That  is  false.  I  can  swear  my- 
self !  I  saw  that  child,  as  well  and  strong  as  I  am  now, 
leave  the  railroad  train  at  Pueblo,  Colorado  !  " 

11  You  believe  this  waif  of  the  West  is  a  peeress  of 
England  ? "  gasps  Mrs.  Willis. 

"  Pretty  nearly,"  answers  Miss  Bessie.  "  Phil  can 
swear  to  the  marks  upon  her  arm  ;  and  now  I  think  of 
it,  all  my  chat  with  the  young  lady  at  the  Patriarchs  I 
was  trying  to  recollect  where  I  had  seen  her  face.  From 
nine  to  eighteen  makes  a  great  change  in  a  girl,  but  I 
almost  think " 

"  Then  prepare  to  be  certain,"  says  Phil ;  and  he 
shoves  under  her  eyes  a  photograph,  and  asks  :  "  Who's 
that?" 

"  That,"  answers  Miss  Bessie,  confidently,  "  is  the 
likeness  of  Flossie  Willoughby,  or  rather  Lady  Avon- 
mere,  the  little  girl  I  saw  at  Lordsburgh  in  eighty-one." 

"  Right !  "  says  her  brother.  "  It  is  the  picture  poor 
Willoughby  had  in  New  Mexico,  the  one  returned  to  me 
among  his  letters,  and  his  curious  statement  I've  just 
read  to  you.  Now,  whose  likeness  is  that?"  and  he 
places  another  before  his  sister's  excited  eyes. 

"  That,"  cries  Bessie,  "  is  Flossie  Willoughby — I  mean 
Lady  Avonmere — also." 

"  WRONG  !  "  cries  Phil.  "  That  is  the  picture  of  Miss 
Flossie  Follis,  one  year  after  she  was  found  and  adopted. 
I  obtained  it  from  her  present  father." 

"  Then  the  two  are  one  !  I  can  swear  it ! "  says  Bessie 
Everett  very  solemnly.  Next  she  suddenly  astounds 
them  all  by  breaking  out,  "  And  now  for  the  punishment 
of  that  cruel  villain  who  could  leave  a  helpless  child  to 
starve  and  die  in  that  awful  wilderness  ! " 

"  You  are  certain  she's  Baroness  Avonmere  ?  "  gasps 
the  society  matron. 

"  As  sure  as  I  am  that  you  are  Mrs.  Livingston 
Willis  !  " 

"  Then  I'll  do  all  I  can  to  help  you  ! "  ejaculates  that 
lady. 

"  We  can  count  on  you  both  ? "  asks  Grousemoor,  who 
has  been  watching  this  scene  in  quiet  interest. 

"  Body  and  soul  !  "  answers  Bessie. 

"  Yes — like — like  detectives  !  "  chimes  in  Mrs.  Willis 
with  a  little  shudder,  for  she  is  rather  timid  about  burglart 


364  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

and  detective*  and  such  people,  classing  them  all  in  the 
same  category. 

"  So  you  will  take  up  the  cause  of  this  persecuted 
girl  ? "  remarks  Phil. 

"  Won't  we  !  "  cries  Miss  Bessie  with  enthusiastic 
eagerness.  "  Mrs.  Willis  will  drive  up  to  the  Follises  to- 
morrow, and  invite  her  to  stop  with  her  ;  then  we  two'll 
take  her  into  society,  and  if  any  one  dares  to  slight  her, 
we'll  say  :  '  Take  care  !  This  is  not  an  unknown  waif 
you're  snubbing,  but  Florence  Beatrice  Stella  Willoughby, 
Lady  Avonmere,  and  peeress  in  her  own  right  in  the 
Kingdom  of  England  !  ' ' 

"  Yes,  and  give  Avonmere  the  hint !  Then  we'll  have 
him  and  every  money-lender  in  Britain  who's  got  a  lien 
on  that  spendthrift's  rents  to  fight  along  with  him  before 
we  are  ready,"  cuts  in  Grousemoor. 

"  Pough  !  Don't  you  suppose  he  knows  who  Flossie 
Follis  is  already  ?  Who's  spread  all  these  rumors  to  break 
the  girl's  heart  ?  "  answers  Miss  Bessie  airily. 

"  Doubtless  he  knows  it  ;  but  he  is  also  perfectly  sure 
Florence  doesn't  know  it,  and  has  no  idea  that  we  have 
any  knowledge  of  the  fact  or  are  taking  any  steps  in  the 
matter.  His  ideas  are  concentrated  on  Miss  Tillie  Follis 
and  her  fortune.  When  I  come  upon  him  it  will  be  like 
a  thunder-clap  !  "  answers  Everett. 

"  Then  we're  to  say  nothing  of  our  protig&s  rank  ?  " 
murmurs  Mrs.  Willis  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"  Not  for  the  present ;  but  you  can  be  kind  to  her,  and 
invite  her  to  your  house,  and  use  your  great  social  in- 
fluence for  her  protection  from  the  rumors  that  float 
about  to  annoy  her  and  to  put  her  to  shame,"  answers 
Mr.  Everett. 

His  diplomatic  allusion  to  Mrs.  Willis's  great  social 
influence  quite  reconciles  that  matron  to  a  few  days' 
secrecy,  and  she  readily  consents  to  chaperon  the  coming 
Lady  Avonmere. 

Then  they  all  go  to  discussing  Phil's  plans  for  the  un- 
doing of  the  villain  uncle  ;  when  suddenly  his  sister,  who 
has  occupied  her  time  in  thinking,  not  talking,  cries  out : 
"  Do  you  want  more  proof — good  proof  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I "  answers  her  sweetheart ;  "  all  we  can 
get." 

"Then  make  Flossie   Follis  remember  Flossie  Wil« 


MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  265 

loughby ! "  pants  the  girl,  all  excitement  at  her  idea. 
"  Give  her  memory  a  starting  point,  a  fulcrum  upon 
which  the  mind  of  Miss  Nobody  of  Nowhere  will  swing 
into  that  of  the  child  peeress  of  England  !  If  we  can 
swear  we  saw  this  wonderful  mental  evolution,  that  will 
be  good  evidence  to  the  world  and  to  the  law." 

"  But  how  ?  "  answers  Everett.  "  That's  the  thing  I've 
been  trying  to  do  for  a  week." 

"  How  ?  By  letting  her  see  that  Phil  Everett  the 
Boston  capitalist  was  Pete  the  New  Mexican  cowboy  ?  " 

"  Pshaw  !  I  can't  take  her  to  the  Gila  plains  1 "  cries 
Phil. 

"  Pough  !  "  answers  his  sister  enthusiastically.  *'  Take 
her  to  Mrs.  Warburton's  circus  !  Show  Florence  Follis 
how  you  saved  Florence  Willoughby  that  day  in  New 
Mexico !  Do  your  great  cowboy  act,  with  child  and 
Indian  accompaniments  1  " 

"  Impossible  !  "  says  Grousemoor. 

"  Not  at  all ! "  answers  the  girl  who  has  become 
enthusiastic  over  her  plan.  "  This  is  Wednesday  ;  the 
circus  is  Friday  night. " 

"But  the  Indians?" 

"  Get  'em  from  Buffalo  Bill's  '  Wild  West."  " 

"And  the  child?" 

"  Borrow  a  Fauntleroy  from  one  of  the  theatres.  Tele- 
graph to-night  for  Possum  from  our  Massachusetts  farm. 
I'll  see  your  old  cowboy  dress  gets  here  from  home  in 
time.  And  then— oh,  Phil,  if  you  succeed  you'll  have 
an  awful  responsibility  !  " 

"  Responsibility  ?    Why  so  ?  " 

"  Because,"  answers  Miss  Bessie  solemnly,  "  the  mo- 
ment you  give  Miss  Nobody  of  Nowhere  a  name,  an 
English  peeress  will  give  you  a  heart ! — Ou-gh  !  take 
care  !  I'm  not  Miss  Flossie  Follis  !  " 

For  upon  this  view  of  the  situation  Everett  has  given 
his  adviser  a  salute  of  extraordinary  fervor,  coming  from 
a  brother's  lips. 

"  Why,  he's  in  love  with  her  !  "  cries  Mrs.  Willis  with 
amazed  eyes. 

"  Of  course  he  is !  "  laughs  Grousemoor.  "  I  saw  it 
at  the  Patriarchs." 

"  And  I  saw  it  when  he  was  a  cowboy — a  delirious 
cowboy  !  Why,  where  are  you  going  ? "  says  Miss  Bessie. 


266  MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

"To  be  a  cowboy  again,"  answers  her  brother. 
"  I'm  going  to  telegraph  for  Possum."  And  he  leaves 
the  room,  followed  by  the  laughter  of  Grousemoor  and 
the  two  ladies. 

Then  they  all  go  into  the  plan  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
a  great  excitement. 

Next  morning  Mrs.  Willis  invites  Flossie  to  spend  a  few 
days  with  her.  This  invitation  is  eagerly  accepted  by 
the  girl,  who  is  very  grateful  for  social  kindness  about 
this  time,  and  is  readily  acceded  to  by  Mrs.  Follis,  who 
has  a  project  on  hand  that  she  greatly  fears  will  fall 
under  her  adopted  daughter's  brilliant  eyes. 

The  other  arrangements  are  made  with  the  speed  that 
money  gives  and  the  facility  social  influence  permits. 

Phil  finds  Mr.  Foxhunter  Reach,  the  amateur  ring- 
master, is  very  willing  to  put  his  grand  cowboy  act  on 
his  programme,  in  the  place  of  honor  before  the  "  Mech- 
anique." 

Mrs.  Willis  obtains  from  Mrs.  Warburton  an  invitation 
for  her  protegee. 

Possum  and  Pete's  frontier  equipments  are  all  on  hand; 
so  are  the  child  star  and  Indians. 

Phil  is  about  to  go  down  early  on  the  day  of  the  per- 
formance for  a  dress  rehearsal,  when  into  his  room  at  the 
Brevoort  comes  a  figure  that  causes  him  to  spring  hur- 
riedly up,  and  a  voice  speaks  to  him  that  makes  the  last 
nine  years  of  his  life  seem  but  a  day. 

He  cries  :  "  Garvey,  by  heavens  !  "  and  seems  to  see 
the  Gila  plains  again. 

For  this  wiry  old  frontier  sheriff  has  scarcely  changed 
since  last  he  saw  him  on  the  mesas  of  New  Mexico  ;  and 
though  his  hair  is  somewhat  thinner,  his  eyes  have  still 
that  wonderful  brightness  and  gleam  of  perennial  youth 
that  kindly  nature  gives  to  some  very  old  men — patriarchs 
whom  dissipation  has  not  robbed  of  vitality  nor  enthu- 
siasm. 

"  I  come  up  quiet,  Pete,"  says  the  old  man,  "  for  fear 
that  chap  we're  after  might  hear  of  my  being  in  town, 
and  skip  afore  we  got  the  drop  on  him  ;  likewise  Bur- 
roughs, the  Colorado  deputy — he's  more  up  to  this  ex- 
trading  business  than  I  am,  and  he  helped  me  out  up 
at  Albany,  and  we've  got  the  papers  all  right  if  you've 
got  the  man  to  fit  'em." 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  26( 

"  We  can  put  our  hands  on  him  at  any  time,"  says 
PhiL  "  Well  do  it  to-morrow  afternoon !  " 

Then  he  explains  to  the  sheriff  his  peculiar  plan  to 
right  Miss  Flossie  Follis  and  undo  Avonmere,  showing 
him  the  documents  from  England,  remarking  on  Arthur 
Willoughby's  shrewdness  in  getting  the  report  of  a  cor- 
oner's jury  in  New  Mexico  made  acceptable  evidence  in 
English  courts.  "You  see,"  explains  Everett,  "he  first 
got  a  New  Mexican  notary  to  certify  to  the  coroner's  seal 
and  signature;  then  a  United  States  commissioner  for  New 
Mexico  to  certify  to  the  notary's  seal  and  signature  ;  and 
then  the  British  consul  to  accredit  the  commissioner's 
seal  and  certification,  which  was  all  he  knew  about  the 
matter." 

"  And  so  our  drunken  young  coroner's  seal  became 
English  evidence  ?  That  chap  you're  after's  pretty 
peert.  You'd  better  nail  him  to-day,"  remarks  Garvey. 

"  Impossible  !  "  answers  Everett. 

Then  after  making  all  arrangements  for  the  next  day, 
he  goes  down  to  Mrs.  Warburton's  beautiful  country 
place  near  Cedarhurst,  where  her  roomy,  old-fashioned 
barn  has  been  turned  into  a  beautiful  temple  to  the  honor 
of  the  horse — an  animal  that  a  certain  set  of  New  York 
society  worship  with  the  same  fervor  that  another  por- 
tion bow  down  to  the  golden  calf. 

At  this  time  of  the  year,  the  weather  not  being  pro- 
pitious for  the  glorification  of  said  beast  either  by  horse- 
racing,  polo-playing,  or  fox-hunting — that  is,  chasing  the 
anise-seed  bag — they  have  concluded  to  give  their  four- 
footed  deity  an  ovation  in  the  way  of  a  circus ;  Mrs. 
Warburton,  one  of  the  high-priestesses  of  the  order> 
kindly  spending  her  money  and  throwing  open  her  house 
and  grounds  for  the  Bucephalerian  mysteries. 

After  being  hospitably  welcomed  by  his  hostess,  he 
finds  his  child  star,  a  pretty  little  precocity  of  about 
eleven,  awaiting  him  with  her  mother  ;  also  four  or  five 
Indians,  these  last  being  borrowed  from  a  section  of  the 
:<  Wild  West "  en  route  for  Europe. 

Then,  followed  by  his  motley  crew,  he  takes  his  way 
to  the  barn. 

This  edifice,  built  in  the  lavish  luxury  common  to 
New  York  princes  of  finance,  is  a  palace  in  wood,  of  noble 
size  and  dimensions,  and  large  enough  to  stable  the  horses 


268  MISS    NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

of  a  battery  of  artillery,  with  a  troop  or  two  of  cavalry 
thrown  in.  It  is  still  in  the  hands  of  a  crowd  of  bus} 
workmen;  but  the  master  of  ceremonies  has  kept  the  arena 
open  for  Everett's  rehearsal,  and  most  of  the  details  hav- 
ing been  prepared  before  in  New  York,  he  goes  through 
his  act  for  three  or  four  hours,  and  is  kindly  informed 
by  Mr.  Reach,  the  amateur  ring-master,  that  he  thinks 
his  performance  will  be  a  "  go." 

Then  he  has  a  consultation  with  the  electrician  in 
charge,  who  starts  at  his  suggestion,  but  finally  accedes 
to  his  request. 

And  so  evening  falls  upon  Mrs.  Warburton's  beautiful 
house  and  grounds,  which  now  become  brilliant  with 
sparkling  electric  lights.  These  are  strung  down  the 
avenue  and  placed  here  and  there  through  the  gardens, 
and  also  illuminate  the  barn,  with  its  brilliant  decorations 
and  arena  filled  with  perfumed  sawdust,  its  over-hanging 
trapezes  and  swinging  bars,  and  stable  outside  filled  with 
neighing  horses  and  grinning  grooms. 

By  this  time  the  performers  are  nearly  all  present,  in 
various  stages  of  preparation  for  the  coming  file,  and  the 
guests  by  special  train  will  arrive  from  New  York  in  a 
few  minutes. 

The  brilliant  audience  are  pretty  well  seated,  when 
Mrs.  Willis,  Miss  Bessie  Everett,  and  Flossie  Follis,  ac- 
companied by  Grousemoor,  having  made  their  bows  to 
their  hostess,  enter  the  building.  The  orchestra  is  play- 
ing ;  the  peanut  and  candy  girls,  in  full  cry,  are  tossing 
their  wares  about  with  as  much  activity,  vim,  and  attention 
to  business  as  circus  lemonade  men  ply  their  vocations 
for  their  daily  bread  at  "  Barnum's  Greatest  Show  on 
Earth." 

The  performance  has  not  begun,  and  the  buzz  of 
expectation  floats  up  through  the  air  to  the  electric 
lamps  burning  above. 

-,-.  The  three  ladies  fortunately  find  seats  near  the  front 
row,  Miss  Flossie  sitting  in  the  middle,  Mrs.  Willis  on 
one  side  of  her  and  Miss  Bessie  Everett  on  the  other, 
both  ladies  all  expectation,  interest,  and  eyes  to  see  how 
a  certain  portion  of  the  performance  will  affect  their 
frotfgte. 

Grousemoor  takes  a  position  immediately  behind  the 
young  lady,  even  his  matter-of-fact  Scotch  heart  beating 


MISS  NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  269 

a  trifle  quicker  as  he  wonders  whether  to-night  will 
bring  back  the  memory  of  her  earlier  days  into  the 
beautiful  head  that  is  poised  in  front  of  him. 

They  have  been  seated  only  a  few  moments,  Miss 
Flossie  contentedly  munching  some  peanuts,  obtained 
from  one  of  the  peanut  maidens,  dreamily  listening  to  the 
orchestra,  and  rather  indifferently  looking  over  her  pro- 
gramme, when  she  suddenly  attracts  the  attention  of  the 
two  ladies  and  gentleman  who  are  watching  her,  by  a 
little  subdued  "  O-oh  !  "  and  a  start  of  interest. 

Looking  carefully  at  her,  they  see  she  is  inspecting  the 
latter  end  of  the  athletic  bill  of  fare,  which  contains  the 
following  announcement : 

ACT  XII. — THE  COWBOY.     An  adventure  in  New  Mexico. 
Pete.     By  an  original  cowboy. 
Apaches.     By  genuine  Indians  of    the  "  Wild   West," 

by  permission  of  Buffalo  Bill. 
The  Little  Girl  from  England.     By  la  petite  Fauntleroy. 

SYNOPSIS. 

PART  I.         The  Sports  of  the  Plains.     By  Broncho  Pete. 

PART  II.  The  Rescue  of  the  Little  Girl  from  England.  The  ride 
from  the  lone  ranch  on  the  San  Francisco,  where  her 
father  and  mother  have  been  killed,  Pete  bearing  in  his 
arms  the  child,  and  followed  by  Nana  and  a  band  of 
Apache  braves.  The  crossing  of  the  San  Francisco — 
the  hurried  drink — the  child  crying  for  its  mother  and 
father  lying  dead  among  the  melon  vines  of  Comming's 
ranch.  The  chase  across  the  mesa.  The  box  canon 
of  the  Gila — crossing  the  cation.  The  wounded  cow- 
boy. The  fight  at  the  ford.  The  little  Samaritan. 
"  Dear  Mr.  Peter."  The  rain-storm  and  cloud-burst 
— what  the  lightning  showed  I 

She  reads  this  portion  of  the  programme  several  times, 
each  time  more  attentively ;  a  startled,  wild  expression 
comes  into  her  face  ;  and  though  the  band  is  playing  the 
opening  quadrille,  and  four  of  the  prettiest  horsewomen 
in  New  York  and  four  of  the  most  graceful  horsemen  of 
the  various  hunting  clubs  are  prancing  through  the 
opening  quadrille  on  polo  ponies  who  vivaciously  dance 


270  MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE. 

to  the  music,  she  hardly  looks  at  them  ;  and  her  eyes  have 
a  far-away  expression  that  not  all  the  applause  of  that 
enthusiastic  audience  can  take  from  them. 

Once  or  twice  in  the  evening  she  seems  to  rouse  herself 
by  an  effort.  She  laughs  slightly  at  the  clowns  when  they 
are  at  their  funniest ;  the  trained  dogs  get  little  atten- 
tion from  her,  though  she  dotes  on  canines  ;  the  bare- 
back riding  of  the  famed  Mile.  Sylphonia,  which  is  done 
to  immense  applause  by  a  graceful  gentleman  in  low  neck, 
short  sleeves,  tulle  skirts,  and  the  same  general  get-up  of 
the  dashing  lady  rider  of  the  circus,  attracts  her  eyes,  but 
does  not  gain  the  attention  of  her  mind. 

Whatever  thoughts  she  has  seem  to  be  far  away  from 
this  brilliant  scene,  this  crowded  auditorium.  Once  or 
twice  her  lips  tremble ;  several  times  tears  are  in  her  eyes, 
and  Grousemoor,  looking  at  her,  thinks  to  himself  :  "  If 
the  announcement  on  the  programme  affects  her  so,  what 
will  the  performance  do  to  her  ?  " 

Turning  from  her,  he  sees  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
arena  Arthur,  Lord  Avonmere.  This  gentleman  has  run 
down  to  this  performance  alone ;  Mrs.  Marvin,  Mrs. 
Follis,  and  Miss  Tillie,  having  great  preparations  before 
them  for  the  coming  day,  remaining  in  New  York. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  thinks  the  Scotch  nobleman,  "  he'll  recog- 
nize the  thing  also,  perhaps  take  a  hint  and  give  us  no 
end  of  trouble." 

But  nothing  can  be  done  to  remedy  this  matter  now, 
for  "  PETE,  THE  COWBOY,"  is  the  next  act  on  the  pro- 
gramme. 

The  orchestra  breaks  into  a  wild  flourish,  and  he  comes 
dashing  in — just  the  same  dirty,  bronzed,  rough-and- 
tumble  bedouin  of  the  prairies  that  Broncho  Pete  was 
nine  long  years  ago,  his  face  made  up  from  a  photograph 
of  that  time,  his  dress  the  one  in  which  he  fought  and 
bled  on  the  banks  of  the  Gila — the  same  bullet-holes  in 
it,  the  same  blood-stains  still  dark  upon  its  cloth  and 
leather.  The  saddle  is  the  same  ;  and  Possum,  kept  well 
and  strong,  and  living  easily  on  Phil's  farm  in  Massa- 
chusetts, is  the  same  wiry  brute  that  raced  over  the  hot 
mesas  with  Everett  on  his  back,  when  he  saved  the  little 
Flossie  Willoughby's  life. 

"  By  George  !  he's  the  genuine  article  ! "  whispers  Mr 
Benson  to  Miss  Budd. 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  3JI 

"  His  dirt  seems  genuine  enough,"  replies  that  young 
lady  with  a  giggle. 

But  words  are  drowned  in  a  wild  yell  of  applause. 
Accident  has  permitted  Pete  the  cowboy  to  make  a  hit 
on  his  entrtc. 

Little  Gussie,  who  has  officiated  as  a  dude  clown,  and 
been  nearly  beaten  and  slapped  to  death  several  times 
in  the  evening  by  his  confreres,  two  stalwart,  burly, 
brutal,  and  funny  creatures,  has  just  thrown  a  lighted 
pack  of  fire-crackers  under  Possum's  hoofs. 

With  a  snort  of  terror,  the  mustang  is  bucking  wildly; 
but  Phil  has  not  forgotten  his  old  tricks  either,  and  his 
strong  knees  grip  the  broncho's  sides  as  they  did  in 
other  days. 

Then  he  pursues  little  Gussie,  who,  flying  from  the 
pony's  mad  rush,  takes  refuge  upon  the  railing  of  the 
ring,  and  thinks  himself  safe,  and  chuckles  in  the  glee  of 
the  dude  mixed  with  the  mirth  of  the  clown. 

But  even  as  he  does  so  a  lariat  whirls  from  Pete  the 
cowboy's  once  practised  hand,  and  the  dude  clown 
caught  in  its  rawhide  noose  is  yanked  down  from  his 
perch  of  safety,  and  rolled  over  and  tumbled  about  in 
the  sawdust  of  the  arena,  uttering  hideous  cries  of  real 
terror,  that  the  crowd  greet  with  a  howl  of  hilarious  joy. 

This  general  enthusiasm  and  excitement  veils  the 
greater  agitations  of  Arthur,  Lord  Avonmere,  and  Flossie, 
his  niece. 

As  Pete  rides  in,  Miss  Flossie  is  leaning  forward ; 
her  eyes  rest  on  the  piebald  mustang  ;  she  gives  a  short, 
sharp  sigh,  and  presses  her  hand  to  her  heart,  that 
Grousemoor  can  see  by  the  throbbing  silk  and  velvet 
above  it  is  beating  wildly. 

But  if  the  effect  is  great  on  the  niece,  it  is  tremendous 
on  the  uncle ;  and  glancing  at  him  the  Scotchman  sees 
him  pale  as  death,  with  drooping  jaw,  and  lips  that  mut- 
ter in  stupefied  surprise. 

While  this  is  going  on,  Pete  gives  his  exhibition  of  cow- 
boy riding  in  the  reckless,  devil-may-care  way  common 
to  the  real  article,  and  dashes  off  in  a  volley  of  applause  ; 
for  he  has  done  some  tricks  of  horsemanship  that  have 
astonished  the  fox-hunting,  polo-playing  contingent  pres- 
ent, and  his  episode  with  the  dude  clown  had  already 
made  him  a  favorite 


272  MISS  NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

And  so  part  first  of  "  The  Cowboy  "  ends. 

There  is  a  slight  interval ;  the  musicians  change  from 
the  wild  galop  they  have  been  playing  to  a  heart-touch- 
ing Spanish  air  that  stimulates  the  imagination,  and 
brings  the  tears  a  little  nearer  the  eyelids ;  and  as  this 
is  taking  place  the  Scotchman  notes  that  the  girl  sees 
Avonmere,  and  a  wonderful  change  takes  place  in  her. 

From  now  on  he  notes  she  is  fighting  with  herself — 
fighting  to  restrain  some  immense  emotion  that  is  dominat- 
ing her  mind  ;  fighting  to  control  something  that  she  fears 
will  conquer  her ;  and  her  manner  is  so  repressed  that 
she  astounds  Grousemoor  and  disappoints  Bessie  Everett 
and  Mrs.  Willis,  who  are  eagerly  looking  for  some  wild 
outburst  of  returning  memory  and  melodramatic  passion. 

A  moment  after,  part  second  begins. 

The  rattle  of  firearms  is  heard  off,  and  Pete  dashes  in 
on  Possum,  carrying  in  his  arms  a  little  girl  who  makes 
Bessie  Everett  scream  with  astonishment,  for  the  child- 
actress  has  been  made  the  likeness  of  Florence  Beatrice 
Stella  Willoughby,  Lady  Avonmere,  whom  Phil  carried 
in  his  arms  from  the  Apaches.  As  he  comes  in  he 
slightly  checks  his  horse,  walks  him  along  as  if  fording 
a  river,  and  stooping  down  simulates  taking  up  the  water 
in  his  sombrero,  giving  the  child  a  drink,  and  pets  and 
caresses  her,  telling  her  not  to  grieve.  Then  tossing  the 
liquid  over  her  face,  the  little  girl,  who  has  been  sobbing 
silently,  suddenly  cries  :  "  Take  me  back  !  I  will  go 
back  to  my  dear  father  and  mother !  They  were  alive 
five  minutes  since,  when  the  dark  bad  men  made  the 
bang  noise,  and  mamma  fell  down,  and  papa — the  dear 
papa  I  came  all  the  way  from  England  to  see— cried  : 
'  Save  the  baby,  Pete  !'  and  fell  down  beside  her.  No, 
No  !  They  can't  be  really  dead  !  " 

And  she  struggles  to  get  from  his  arms  and  to  run 
back  ;  but  he,  clasping  her  tight  upon  his  breast,  whispers 
to  her  and  soothes  her,  then  shouts  :  "  For  the  box  canon 
of  the  Gila ! "  and  putting  spurs  to  Possum  dashes 
along. 

A  moment  after,  with  whoop  and  war-cry,  the  Indians 
spurring  their  ponies  come  on  the  scene,  and  race  wildly 
after  him.  Till  running  the  course  some  two  or  three 
times,  Pete  suddenly  checks  Possum,  apparently  rides  into 
another  river,  gives  the  child  another  drink,  and  coming  to 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  »73 

a  part  of  the  arena  where  some  painted  rocks  have  been 
placed,  the  little  girl  says,  "  Bad  men  behind  us  again  !  " 

A  shot  comes  from  the  pursuing  Indians,  and  dropping 
the  child  in  safety  behind  one  of  the  rocks,  Pete  claps  his 
hand  to  his  thigh,  and  tumbles  writhing,  wounded  and 
groaning,  from  the  mustang. 

Seeing  this,  the  child  takes  to  caressing  and  soothing 
him  ;  but  he  cries :  "  I  must  keep  them  from  crossing  the 
Gila  till  the  cloud-burst ! "  and  crawls  with  his  gun  to 
the  top  of  the  rock  and  looks  over. 

During  this,  the  Indians  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
arena  have  been  gesticulating  and  pointing  to  the  heavens, 
and  one  says :  "  Heap  big  rain  !  Cross  the  river  and 
scalp  !  " 

Then  they  dismount,  and  leaving  their  horses  in  care 
of  one,  come  across  what  they  pretend  is  a  river-bed, 
shooting  at  Phil,  who  returns  their  fire  and  drives  them 
back. 

They  retreat,  and  he  lies  groaning  and  wounded  ;  but 
at  his  side  is  the  little  girl,  who  has  caught  some 
running  water  in  her  little  straw  hat,  and  placing  it  to 
his  lips  says  in  sympathetic  voice  :  *'  Dear  Mr.  Peter,  I've 
brought  you  some  water  !  You  look  so  thirsty  now  !  " 

And  he  replies  :  "  What's  the  matter  with  your  arm  ?  " 
then  cries  :  "  Curse  the  Apaches,  they've  shot  you  jnst 
below  that  little  mole  ;  the  mark  '11  never  leave  you  ! " 

And  she  whispers  back  :  "  It's  going  to  rain  and  fill 
the  river,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Peter,  so  you  can  save  me  ? " 

Even  while  she  is  speaking  the  audience  start,  for  the 
electric  lights  are  growing  dim.  But  one  among  them 
does  not  note  the  darkness,  for  the  world  is  growing 
bright  with  hope  to  her,  and  she  is  muttering  to  her- 
self :  "  Dear  Mr.  Peter — the  cowboy  of  my  dream  !  " 

Then  the  Indians  come  on,  hurriedly  firing,  and  of  a 
sudden  every  light  on  the  place  goes  out  and  it  is  dark, 
and  the  child  is  calling  :  "  The  river's  rising  to  keep 
them  from  us ! " 

Then  there  are  crashes  of  thunder  and  flashes  of  light- 
ning, and  by  its  fitful  lights  the  Indians  are  seen  flying — 
all  save  one  who  is  on  the  rocks  with  the  cowboy  and  the 
child — and  darkness  comes  again. 

A  moment  after,  another  and  more  vivid  flash  illumi- 
nates the  arena,  and  the  Indian  is  climbing  up  the  rock 


274  MliS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE. 

while  Pete  is  glaring  into  his  painted  face,  and  as  the 
Apache  springs  for  his  adversary's  throat  the  cowboy's 
revolver  speaks.  There  is  a  mighty  clap  of  thunder,  and 
over  it  comes  the  death-shriek  of  the  brave  and  all  is  dark 
once  more. 

While  in  the  gloom  Flossie  Follis  is  whispering  :  "  I  re- 
member how  my  poor  mother  and  father  died.  Dear  Mrs. 
Willis,  take  me  from  here  ! "  and  Grousemoor  supporting 
her  to  the  open  air  finds  that  she  has  fainted  in  his  arms. 

A  moment  after,  the  place  becomes  bright  with  electric 
lights  once  more,  and  the  audience  are  gazing  at  each 
other  in  surprise,  for  the  arena  is  empty  of  rocks,  horses, 
Indians,  child,  and  cowboy,  and  the  three  clowns  are 
doing  a  harum-scarum  tumbling  act. 

But  during  the  darkness  Avonmere  has  also  gone 
out.  He  walks  about  the  grounds  with  a  dazed  expres- 
sion, and  goes  to  muttering  :  "  Everett — the  name  of 
the  woman  who  claimed  him  as  son ;  Bessie — the  name 
of  the  girl  who  nursed  him  as  sister  ;  both  saw  me  and 
the  child  leave  the  train  at  Pueblo.  Phil  !— Pete ! — By 
heavens  !  the  delirious  cowboy  of  the  inquest!  He's  shown 
strange  interest  in  her.  This  conglomeration  to-night 
was  to  make  her  remember.  By  Jove  !  it's  lucky  all's  fixed 
for  to-morrow  !  Whatever  they  do  will  be  TOO  LATE  !  " 

This  last  reflection  has  such  a  soothing  effect  upon  his 
lordship's  mind  that  he  walks  to  the  house,  and  finding 
some  congenial  spirits  in  the  supper-room,  which  is  now 
crowded,  the  performance  being  finished,  he  makes  a 
very  hilarious  night  of  it,  till  the  special  train  carries 
him  back  to  New  York. 

When  Phil  emerges  from  his  dressing-room,  once  more 
the  man  of  the  world,  he  finds  the  arena  deserted,  and 
the  guests  at  the  big  country-house  enjoying  supper  and 
preparing  for  the  dance. 

He  looks  about  for  his  party,  and  to  his  astonishment 
none  of  them  are  there  ;  but  while  engaged  in  his  search 
a  servant  hands  him  a  note.  This  has  been  hurriedly 
written  on  a  card  and  reads  : 

"  You've  succeeded  too  well  for  her  nervous  system.  Have  taken 
her  to  Mrs.  Willis'*.  Follow  u*  soon  as  possible. 

"GROUSEMOOR.* 

Getting  to  his  hostess  to  bid  her  good-by,  that  ladj 


MISS   NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  275 

informs  him  that,  Miss  Follis  becoming  suddenly  ill, 
Mrs.  Willis  had  taken  advantage  of  a  train  that  left  im- 
mediately after  the  performance  to  convey  her  party  back 
to  New  York. 

Five  minutes  after  this,  Everett,  having  obtained  Mr. 
Gussie's  company  for  the  trip,  drives  from  Mrs.  Warbur- 
ton's.  Reaching  the  main  Long  Island  Railroad,  they 
fortunately  catch  a  delayed  accommodation  train  at  Val- 
ley Stream,  and  get  to  New  York  but  an  hour  later  than 
Mrs.  Willis's  party. 

Chartering  a  night  hack,  Phil  drives  Mr.  Van  Beekman 
to  Thirty-seventh  Street,  leaving  him  there  with  these 
significant  words :  "  You've  watched  Avonmere  for  a 
week  and  discovered  nothing !  Watch  him  from  now 
on,  and  if  he  doesn't  make  a  move  soon,  he  never 
will !  " 

"  Won't  I,  old  chappie  ?  Wouldn't  I  like  to  down  him 
as  he  downed  me?"  is  the  answer  of  Augustus  as  he 
limps  into  his  house  with  sundry  groans  and  sighs,  the 
results  of  his  clowning  in  the  early  evening. 

Then  Everett  rushes  his  hack  up  Madison  Avenue  to 
Mrs.  Willis's.  Here,  finding  the  house  lighted,  he  rings 
the  bell,  and  a  moment  after  is  the  centre  of  an  excited 
trio. 

"  She  remembers  everything,"  says  Grousemoor. 

"  Lady  Avonmere  won't  go  to  bed  till  she  sees  you," 
ejaculates  Mrs.  Willis. 

"  Go  in  and  win  her,"  whispers  Bessie.  She  leads  hei 
brother  into  a  cosy  little  parlor  at  the  rear  of  the  house, 
and  a  moment  after  Phil  is  standing  before  the  girl,  who 
has  risen  in  beautiful  agitation  to  receive  him. 

There  are  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  murmurs,  "  God 
bless  you,  dear  Mr.  Peter,  you  have  given  me  a  name  !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  says,  a  perhaps  mistaken  generosity  prompt- 
ing him  to  claim  nothing  from  one  who  owes  him  so 
much.  "  And  to-morrow  I  propose  to  make  the  world 
recognize  what  you  remember  !  " 

Then  he  informs  her  of  certain  arrangements  he  haa 
made  for  the  coming  day,  charging  her  to  be  ready  when 
Mr.  Follis  comes  for  her. 

"  Of  course  I— I  shall  do  as  you  desire,**  says  Flossie. 
with  a  slight  sigh  in  her  voice,  and  perchance  a  little 
reproach  in  her  eyes. 


276  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

"  Very  well,  then  you'd  better  get  all  the  sleep  yoe 
can  ;  to-morrow's  ordeal  will  probably  be  more  trying 
than  to-night's." 

And  he  would  leave  her. 

But  the  girl  steps  after  him,  lays  a  hand  that  is  trem- 
bling, perhaps  from  weakness,  perchance  from  some  emo- 
tion, on  his  arm  and  stammers  :  "  You — you — don't  let 
me  thank  you  for — for  saving  my  life  as  a  child,  and  giv- 
ing me  memory  as  a — a  woman.  You're — you're  very 
unkind  to  me,  dear  Mr.  Peter." 

"  I — what  have  I  done  ?"  gasps  Phil. 

Then  a  blush  of  mingled  shame  and  pride  flies  over 
her  beautiful  face  ;  she  mutters :  "  Nothing !  You  have 
done  NOTHING  ! "  next  says  very  haughtily  and  very 
coolly,  "  Good  night,  Mr.  Everett,"  and  so  leaves  him. 

"  Is  she  yours  ?  "  asks  Bessie,  excitedly,  catching  Phil 
in  the  hall. 

"  No  ;  she  seems  a  little  annoyed,"  answers  the  Bosto- 
nian  in  a  perplexed  tone.  Then  he  describes  his  inter- 
view to  his  sister. 

As  he  finishes,  she  sneers  at  him  one  word  :  "  IDIOT  !  " 
in  a  tone  of  jeering  contempt ;  then  steps  to  Grouse- 
moor  and  says  :  "  Let  us  take  this  cowboy  away  from  the 
heiress  to  whom  he  once  gave  life,  and  now  gives  a  grand 
name  and  another  great  fortune.  Let  us  get  him  away 
before  the  dolt  makes  the  girl  whose  heart  he's  won,  hate 
him — hate  him !  and  HAVE  JUST  CAUSE  FOR  DOING  IT  ! 
His  forte  is  catching  cattle  and  clowns,  NOT  WOMEN  1 " 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AN  INTERNATIONAL  BRIDE. 

THB  morning  brings  an  unexpected  complication. 
Everett,  dressing  leisurely  for  breakfast,  is  disturbed  by 
a  loud  knocking  upon  his  door,  and  little  Gussie's  voice 
comes  to  him  through  the  panel,  saying  in  excited  tones: 
"  Let  me  in,  old  chappie  !  I  have  got  a  corker  in  the  news 
line  for  you.  Too  much  hurry  to  bother  a  bell-boy  with 
card  ;  this  is  an  eye-opener  ! " 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  »7J 

As  the  last  words  leave  his  lips,  the  door  opens,  and 
Mr.  Van  Beekman,  who  is  panting  with  haste  and  ex- 
citement, finds  himself  pulled  into  the  room,  and  Phil 
saying  to  him  in  a  very  serious  voice  :  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,  what  time  are  you  going  to  slap  down 
on  Avonmere  ?  " 

"Two  P.M.,"  says  Everett.  "All  arrangements  are 
made  for  that  time." 

"  Then  you  won't  get  him  !  " 

"  By  Heaven,  I  will  !     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  if  you  don't  jump  on  him  this  morning  pretty 
early — dear  boy — there  will  be  nobody  to  jump  on  this 
afternoon.  You  know  you  asked  me  to  keep  my  eye 
open  on  anything  that  Avonmere  might  do.  So  I  en« 
larged  the  key-hole  in  my  bath-room  door  for  my  little 
eye,  and  piped  him  after  the  manner  of  detectives.  What 
do  you  think  he  is  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  guess  ?    Tell  me  ! " 

"  Well,  all  last  night  after  he  came  home  from  Mrs. 
Warburton's  circus,  he  and  his  valet  were  packing  like 
madmen." 

"Ah  !     Going  away  ?  "  cries  Everett. 

"  To  Europe,  my  boy." 

"  To  Europe  ?  "  echoes  Phil,  astonished. 

"Yes.  This  morning  to  my  astonishment — I  don't 
think  he  had  been  in  bed  all  night — I  heard  him  dressing 
at  eight  o'clock — most  unusual  hour  for  him — so  up  I 
gets — equally  unusual  hour  for  me.  He  didn't  stop  to  take 
breakfast,  neither  did  I.  There  was  a  coupe"  at  the  door, 
and  my  man,  who  was  loafing  about  the  hall  by  my  in- 
structions, heard  him  tell  the  driver :  '  No.  4  Bowling 
Green.' " 

*  Ah  !  the  office  of  the  Cunard  Line  !  " 

"  Certainly.  I  know  that  as  well  as  you  ;  so  he  had  no 
sooner  driven  away  than  I  got  a  hack  myself  and  drove 
down  there,  and  what  do  you  think  I  found  ?  By  George  ! 
a  stateroom  taken  on  the  Aurania,  that  sails  at  i  P.M.  to- 
day—he's going  it  extravagant  this  time — and  extra  berths 
for — what  do  you  think  ? — a  valet  and  maid  !  " 

"  Maid  ? "  cries  Everett.     "  You  must  be  mistaken  I  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so.  However,  he's  going  anyway. 
If  you  want  to  put  your  band  on  him,  you'll  have  to  be 
moving^* 


•78  MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE. 

"  So  I  will !  "  cries  Phil,  and  he  makes  his  arrangements 
rapidly,  not  even  stopping  to  breakfast 

Assisted  by  Gussie,  who  has  worked  himself  up  into  a 
grand  state  of  excitement,  and  by  aid  of  numerous  well- 
tipped  district  telegraph  boys  and  special  messengers,  he 
gets  together,  about  half-past  ten  o'clock,  most  of  the 
people  that  he  wants. 

Then  Van  Beekman  speeds  back  to  his  own  apartments, 
with  instructions,  in  case  Avonmere  leaves  his  rooms,  to 
follow  him  wherever  he  goes. 

But  after  doing  this,  Everett,  as  an  extra  precaution, 
despatches  two  deputy  sheriffs  to  wait  at  the  Cunard  pier 
and  hold  Avonmere  there,  in  case  he  should  make  his 
appearance,  at  all  hazards. 

While  this  has  been  going  on,  he  has  held  a  rapid  con- 
sultation with  Grousemoor. 

"  You  must  never  let  that  man  get  across  the  water," 
says  that  nobleman,  who  is  endowed  with  a  good  deal  of 
solid  Scotch  hard  sense.  "  You  must  fight  him  here." 

"  You  think  it  would  be  much  more  difficult  to  win 
across  the  water  ?  "  asks  Phil. 

"  Almost  impossible.  Here  you  find  this  man,  Arthur 
Willoughby,  commonly  called  Lord  Avonmere,  alone  and 
unaided;  there  you  would  not  fight  him,  but  every  money- 
changer who  has  advanced  him  money,  and  receives  in 
payment  the  rents  of  the  estates  he  occupies  as  Baron 
Avonmere.  By  George  !  You  would  have  half  the  money- 
changers of  England  against  you;  they  always  make  a 
pretty  long  and  hard  battle  for  their  shekels,"  says  his 
lordship. 

"  Then  111  nail  him  here  ! "  cries  Phil;  and  with  that 
goes  to  Garvey,  who  has  made  his  appearance,  and  is  sit- 
ting waiting,  with  the  same  quiet  smile  upon  his  face  with 
which  he  would  have  tackled  a  horse-thief  or  served  war- 
rants  on  cowboys  or  Mexican  banditti. 

"  If  you're  ready,  we'll  start  agin  the  enemy,"  remarks 
the  frontier  sheriff.  "  But  fust  let  me  be  sure,"  and  he 
examines  his  revolver  carefully. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Garvey,"  says  Phil,  noting  this,  "  re- 
memberthat  you're  in  New  York,  not  in  New  Mexico;  the 
man  you  arrest  will  be  unarmed." 

"  Well,  ef  he  turns  up  his  hands  quick  enough,  ther» 
ain't  no  danger  from  me  nur  Bobbie  Burroughs,"  remark! 


MISS   NOBODY    OF   NOWHERE.  «79 

the  New  Mexican  official,  with  a  grin,  pointing  to  the 
Colorado  deputy.  "  Burroughs  has  the  fust  chance  at 
him  fur  murder,  and  I  takes  my  second  for  felonious  for- 
gery. It  seems  to  me,  Pete,  ef  you're  in  a  huny,  we'd 
better  ketch  your  game  before  he  leaves  his  den." 

So  in  two  hacks  Phil,  accompanied  by  Grousemoon 
Garvey,  the  deputy  sheriff  from  Colorado,  a  New  York 
policeman  to  make  the  arrests  in  the  name  of  the  State, 
Phil's  lawyer,  a  notary  public,  and  a  deputy  from  the 
British  consular  office,  make  their  advance  on  the  uncon> 
scious  AvoniTiere. 

"  With  this  crowd,"  remarks  the  frontier  sheriff,  "  we 
ought  to  be  able  to  get  away  with  the  hull  British  peer- 
age." 

They  arrive  at  Thirty-seventh  Street,  and  Phil  gives  a 
sigh  of  relief  as  they  find  a  carriage  in  front  of  the  house 
in  which  Avonmere  lives  ;  he  knows  his  enemy  is  still  in 
his  grasp. 

Little  Mr.  Gussie  is  waiting  at  the  door,  and  comes  to 
Everett  quite  excitedly,  saying  :  "  Just  in  time  !  That 
hack  is  to  take  him  away.  Old  Abe  Follis  and  Miss 
Flossie  are  in  my  parlor  up-stairs  ;  they  arrived  on  the 
Q.  T.  five  minutes  ago." 

"  Much  obliged,"  says  Phil,  who  has  been  very  anxious 
on  this  point,  and,  followed  by  his  posse,  he  also  comes 
up  to  Van  Beekman's  parlor. 

"  You  can  make  your  arrangements  here,"  says  his 
host.  "  Meantime,  I'll  pop  my  eye  on  the  keyhole  in 
my  bath-room  door,  and  report  Avonmere's  movements." 

For  Phil  has  gone  into  a  hurried  consultation  with  the 
object  of  his  solicitude  and  Mr.  Follis. 

That  gentleman  seems  to  be  much  the  more  excited  of 
the  two,  and  wrings  Phil's  hand,  who  has  hurriedly  ex- 
plained the  situation  to  him,  and  says  with  tears  in  his 
voice  :  "  I'm  skeered,  Everett,  in  making  my  little  Flossie 
such  a  social  hummer,  you'll  be  tracing  me  out  of  a 
darter." 

But  the  girl  whispers  to  him,  the  ring  of  truth  in  her 
voice  :  "  Never,  father  !  Never !  You  have  loved  me 
as  a  father,  and  you  are  as  much  my  father  as  if  I  were 
your  own  flesh  and  your  own  blood  1 " 

Then  Phil  leads  Garvey  to  her,  and,  recognizing  the 
frontier  sheriff,  she  seizes  his  hand  and  thanks  him  foi 


*8o  MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHER*. 

what  he  did  for  her  as  a  child.  And  all  this  time  PhE 
stands  in  misery,  for  she  never  says  a  word  more  about 
gratitude  to  him. 

But,  before  he  can  despair  greatly,  Gussie  hurriedly 
comes  from  his  bedroom,  and  says  :  "  You  must  nip  him 
now !  He's  getting  his  baggage  out ! "  and  there  is  a 
great  noise  of  moving  impedimenta  from  the  hallway. 

"  Very  well,"  remarks  Phil  to  the  policeman.  "  Make 
the  arrests  as  I  have  explained  them  to  you ;  do  exactly 
as  I  have  bid  you,  and  it  will  be  the  best  day's  work  you 
have  ever  done  !  " 

"  All  right,"  replies  the  officer,  "  I  understand  ! "  and. 
preceded  by  the  policeman,  Mr.  Everett's  legal  army 
advance  on  their  opponent. 

As  they  reach  the  hall,  the  door  of  Avonmere's  parlor 
opens,  and  that  gentleman  issues  therefrom,  leisurely 
drawing  on  a  glove,  robed  in  his  finest  raiment,  a  new 
glossy  silk  tile  on  his  head,  the  breast  of  his  coat  of  fault- 
less cut  ornamented  by  a  white  and  fragrant  flower,  and 
with  a  smile  of  triumph  upon  his  lips. 

He  says  to  his  valet :  "  Jones,  remember  my  instruc- 
tions ! "  and  is  about  to  pass  down  to  his  hack,  his  hand 
in  his  vest  pocket  feeling  to  be  certain  that  a  little  trinket 
is  there  ready  for  the  finger  of  the  woman  he  loves. 

He  is  strolling  past  Phil's  minions  with  a  look  of 
wonder  in  his  eyes,  for  he  thinks  such  a  crowd  curious 
in  the  halls  of  this  quiet  apartment-house,  when  the 
policeman,  tapping  him  on  the  shoulder,  says  :  *'  You  are 
Lord  Avonmere  ?  " 

"  Certainly  !  "  he  replies. 

"  Can  I  have  a  word  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  only  a  word,"  he  answers,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "  I  haven't  time  for  an  extended  conversation." 

"  Will  you  please  step  back  in  your  room  ?  " 

"  No  !    Say  what  you  want  here. " 

"  Then,  Arthur  Willoughby,  commonly  known  as  Lord 
Avonmere,"  says  the  policeman,  "I  have  a  warrant  of 
arrest  for  you,  issued  by  the  proper  authorities  of  the 
State  of  New  York,  on  requisition  from  the  governor  of 
Colorado,  to  answer  the  crime  of  MURDER  ! " 

"  From  the  governor  of  Colorado  I "  cries  his  lordship, 
thunderstruck;  then  he  begins  to  laugh  nervously  and 
»ays :  "  You  must  be  crazy  !  This  is  some  practical  joke 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  l8l 

to  prevent  my  getting — "  Next  he  looks  quickly  at  hii 
watch,  and  gasps,  "  I  can't  remain  ! " 

"You  must!  " 

"Of  whose  murder  am  I  accused?**  he  asks,  his  lips 
trembling  a  little,  as  he  sees  the  affair  is  serious. 

"  For  the  murder  of  your  niece,  known  at  the  time  of 
her  death  as  Florence  Willoughby,  but  in  reality,  accord- 
ing  to  English  law  and  usage,  Florence  Beatrice  Stella 
Willoughby,  Baroness  Avonmere,  a  peeress  in  her  own 
right  in  the  kingdom  of  England.*'  This  the  policeman 
reads  from  the  document. 

"  I  am  arrested  for  the  murder  of  Florence  Willoughby 
in  Colorado  !  Why,  it  has  always  been  understood  that 
the  child  was  killed  in  New  Mexico." 

"  Then  it  has  been  falsely  understood ! "  cries  Phil, 
who  has  remained  a  little  in  the  background,  coming 
forward.  "  I  can  prove  by  my  sister's  and  mother's 
evidence  that  you  left  the  train  with  Flossie  Willoughby 
at  Pueblo,  Colorado.  If  she  died  in  that  State,  you 
are  the  one  man  who  knows  the  particulars  of  her  death  ! 
Show  us  how  she  died." 

At  these  words,  Avonmere,  growing  very  pale,  and 
shivering  a  little  as  if  a  chill  had  come  upon  him,  cries  : 
"  Ah,  this  is  a  move  of  yours  !  I  expected  something  of 
this  kind  since  last  night.  Come  this  way,  Mr.  Everett ; 
come  into  my  room  with  these  gentlemen  I  But  for  God's 
sake,  BE  QUICK  !  " 

So  they  all  walk  into  his  parlor,  which  they  find  de- 
nuded of  his  ornaments  and  personal  belongings ;  but 
the  furniture,  being  the  property  of  the  house,  is  undis- 
turbed, and  they  make  themselves  comfortable  on  the 
chairs  about  the  room. 

While  they  are  doing  this,  Avonmere  has  passed  his 
hand  once  or  twice  through  his  hair,  as  if  in  very  serious 
but  very  rapid  reflection. 

Apparently  having  made  up  his  mind  to  act,  he  sud- 
denly says  to  his  valet :  "  Go  down-stairs,  Jones,  get  the 
balance  of  my  trunks  that  are  in  the  hall  out  of  it,  take 
them  down  to  the  steamer,  and  wait  for  me  there." 

Next,  turning  to  Phil,  he  says  :  "  You  see  I  have  very 
little  time.  I  have  an  idea  of  your  business  with  me  ;  get 
through  with  it  as  rapidly  as  possible— that's  all  1  ask," 
and  looking  uneasily  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel,  which 


*8a  MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE. 

showa  the  hour  of  eleven,  he  mutters  :  u  I  can  only  glv« 
you  five  minutes  ;"  then  cries  :  "You  know  as  well  as  I 
that  I  am  not  the  murderer  of  the  young  lady  described 
in  these  papers  ;  you  know  SHE  is  ALIVE  !  " 

"  Certainly !  "  replies  Phil.    "  I  know  she  is  alive." 

"  You  have  taken  this  extraordinary  action,"  continues 
Avonmere,  "not  to  prove  that  I  murdered  my  niece, 
but  to  prove  that  the  young  lady  for  whose  benefit  you 
did  your  cowboy  act  last  night  at  Mrs.  Warburton's  circus 
is  not  Flossie  Follis,  but  Florence,  Lady  Avonmere." 

"  Precisely ! "  says  Everett. 

"  Then  if  I  prove  to  you  the  lady  mentioned  in  this 
warrant  is  alive,  and  Mr.  Everett  admits  its  truth,"  says 
Avonmere,  sharply,  turning  to  the  officer,  "I  presume 
you  will  let  me  go  at  once  ? " 

"  That  ain't  my  business,"  replies  the  policeman, 
"  That's  the  say  of  the  deputy  from  Colorado." 

"  Then,  if  you  won't  let  me  go  in  five  minutes,  by 
Heaven,  you'll  get  no  proof  from  me  ! "  cries  Avonmere, 
sinking  into  a  chair  and  simulating  nonchalance,  though 
his  eyes  begin  to  look  very  wild.  "  You  can  have  the 
pleasure  and  the  expense  of  taking  me  to  your  con- 
founded State  and  trying  me  there,"  he  goes  on,  sud- 
denly. "  I  will  prove  she  lives  to  the  Colorado  jury,  and 
have  a  nice  bill  of  damages  for  false  accusation  against" 
— he  looks  meaningly  at  Everett  and  sneers — "  the  gen- 
tleman who  is  doing  all  this  because  he  is  in  love  with 
my  pretended  victim." 

Now,  to  try  Avonmere  for  the  murder  of  a  living 
woman  is  not  at  all  what  Phil  wishes.  The  very  declara- 
tion that  his  opponent  has  made  is  what  he  is  working 
for ;  and  noting  the  tone  of  despair  in  the  man's  voice, 
he  sees  Avonmere  will  probably  be  very  willing  to  give 
proof  of  Flossie  Follis's  identity,  providing  he  is  prom- 
ised immunity  from  arrest. 

"I  think,"  says  Everett,  shortly,  "the  deputy  from 
Colorado,  who  knows  my  wealth,  will  be  willing  to  accept 
my  bond  for  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  hold  him 
harmless  in  case  you  prove  the  person  you  are  accused 
of  murdering  is  alive,  if  he  does  not  press  the  execution 
of  the  warrant  against  vou,  Avonmere  ? " 

"  That's  as  you  say,  Mr.  Everett,"  remarks  Burrougha 
"  Let  him  prove  the  girl  lives,  and  it  would  be  absurd  tc 


MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE.  *8.J 

arrest  him  for  her  murder,  and  I  will  take  the  security 
you  offer  to  withhold  the  warrant." 

"  Are  you  willing  to  make  the  proof  under  this  agree- 
ment?" asks  Everett,  rapidly  turning  to  Avonmere. 

"  Instantly ! "  agrees  that  gentleman,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief.  "  You  have  some  person  with  you  who  can  ad- 
minister an  oath  ? " 

"  Certainly  !  "  savs  Phil.  "  That  was  already  provided 
for." 

"  Ah  !  "  returns  the  Englishman,  a  cynical  smile  light- 
ing  his  Italian  eyes,  "  you  have  understood  your  work, 
and  done  it  very  thoroughly." 

Then,  with  another  hurried  glance  at  the  clock,  he  sits 
do\»n  at  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  writes 
very  rapidly  while  the  party  gaze  on  him  in  silence. 

After  four  or  five  minutes  hurried  composition,  Avon- 
mere  says  :  "  Will  this  suit  you  ?  "  and  reads  the  follow- 
ing lucid,  didactic,  but  clear  statement : 

"  I,  Arthur  Willoughby,  who  have  for  nine  years  thought  myself 
Baron  Avonmere,  of  the  peerage  of  England,  do  hereby,  in  justice 
to  the  person  now  known  as  Miss  Florence  Follis,  of  Colorado,  but 
in  reality  my  niece,  Florence  Beatrice  Stella  Willoughby,  Baroness 
Avonmere,  of  the  peerage  of  England,  make  under  oath,  and  of  my 
own  free  will  and  volition,  the  following  declaration  : 

"After  my  brother,  Arthur  Willoughby,  and  his  wife's  demise  in 
New  Mexico,  I  took  my  niece  with  me  to  return  to  England.  Being 
compelled  to  look  after  mining  interests  in  Colorado,  I  left  the  Atchi- 
son,  Topeka  &  Santa  Fe  Railroad  at  Pueblo,  and  journeyed  to  the 
town  of  Leadville.  The  prospects  I  had  interest  in  were  much  fur- 
ther toward  the  Utah  line,  a  portion  of  the  State  at  that  period  made 
very  dangerous  by  the  Butbreak  of  the  Ute  Indians,  so  I  could  ob- 
tain no  men  to  go  with  me  to  make  an  examination  of  my  properties. 
Therefore  I  started  alone.  I  was  compelled  to  take  my  niece  with 
me,  from  inability  to  find  any  one  to  take  charge  of  her,  and  my 
expectation  that  I  might  be  compelled  to  make  my  way  out  of  the 
basin  of  the  Colorado  River  by  the  Mormon  settlements  in  Utah. 
So  I  took  the  child  on  horseback  with  me,  carrying  her  most  of  the 
way  upon  my  own  saddle,  as  it  was  impossible  to  travel  rapidly.  I 
had  journeyed  in  this  manner  for  six  days,  when,  in  a  gulch  I  have 
since  recognized  by  photographs  as  that  now  known  as  the  canon 
of  the  '  Baby  '  mine,  I  left  my  little  niece  alone,  tempted  by  ti* 
right  oC  setae  big-hon*  half  vr«y  up  the  mountain  si<U 


284  MISS  NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE. 

"  In  stalking  these  I  was  led  a  much  greater  distance  than  I  had 
expected.  When  about  to  return  I  found  myself  cut  off  from  mj 
niece  by  a  number  of  the  Ute  Indians,  at  that  time  in  warfare  against 
the  whites.  Not  daring  to  go  directly  to  the  child,  I  made  a 
detour  to  get  to  her,  and  lost  my  bearings.  Then,  unaccustomed  to 
travel  in  those  great  mountains,  I  missed  the  canon  entirely,  and 
though  I  attempted  for  one  week  to  find  the  child,  was  never  able  to 
do  so.  Next,  my  provisions  being  exhausted,  and  thinking  she  had 
been  either  captured  or  killed  by  the  Indians,  I  made  my  way 
to  the  Mormon  settlements,  and  reached  Salt  Lake,  and  from  there, 
Ly  rail  and  steam,  came  to  England,  believing,  as  Heaven  is  looking 
on  me  now,  the  child  to  be  dead  through  no  fault  of  mine,  but 
merely  an  accident  of  God. 

"  Therefore,  I  did  not  hesitate  to  accept  the  title  and  estates  that 
should  come  to  me  through  the  death  of  Florence,  Lady  Avonmere, 
whom  I  by  this  document  declare  living,  and  to  be  now  known  as 
Florence  Follis,  of  Colorado.  I  relinquish  all  my  rights  in  the 
estates  and  all  titles  that  have  come  to  me  through  my  mistake.  The 
girl's  adoptive  father,  Abraham  Alcibiades  Follis,  can,  by  his  state- 
ment, prove  that  he  found  the  child  where  I  left  her." 

**  Will  my  oath  to  this  be  sufficient  ?  **  he  asks,  with 
curious  anxiety  and  eagerness. 

"  Yes,"  answers  Phil  shortly,  "  if  you  recognize  the 
young  lady  in  the  presence  of  witnesses. " 

He  steps  out  of  the  room,  and  a  moment  after  leads 
Flossie  into  it,  followed  by  Abe. 

"  Is  this  the  girl  mentioned  in  your  statement  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  Yes,"  answers  Avonmere,  "  I  swear  it." 

"  Very  well.  Take  his  deposition,"  says  Everett. 
And  to  the  astonishment  of  Avonmere,  his  affidavit  is 
recorded,  not  only  by  an  American  notary  public,  but 
also  by  a  British  deputy  consul. 

"  Ah  ! "  he  says.  "  You  want  my  evidence  good  in 
England.  Now,  I  presume  I  can  go.  Good  morning, 
gentlemen  !  "  Then,  with  another  glance  at  the  clock, 
that  shows  ten  minutes  after  eleven,  he  is  hurrying  to  the 
door. 

But  Garvey,  who  has  said  nothing,  and  quietly  remained 
in  the  background  until  this  moment,  taps  the  policeman 
»n  the  shoulder,  and  that  official  says :  "  Not  yet !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? '  cries  Avonmere.     "  Have  I 


MISS  NOBODY   OF    NOWHERE.  $85 

not  satisfied  you  that  the  girl  is  alive  ?  I  can't  stay  longer. 
You  don't  know  from  what  you  are  keeping  me  ! "  As 
he  utters  this,  he  looks  curiously  at  Abe  Follis. 

"  There  is  another  warrant  to  be  served  on  you,  Arthur 
Willoughby  ! "  remarks  Garvey  sententiously,  and  the 
policeman,  with  his  hand  on  the  former  nobleman's 
shoulder,  again  says  :  "  You  are  my  prisoner  !  " 

"  What's  the  charge  ?  "  cries  Avonmere,  with  a  smile 
so  forced  that  it  is  hideous,  for  he  is  growing  desperate. 

"  This,"  says  the  officer  :  "  you  are  my  prisoner  on  a 
warrant  issued  by  the  Governor  of  New  York,  on  requi- 
sition of  the  Governor  of  New  Mexico,  for  feloniously 
altering  and  forging  a  so-called  report  of  a  coroner's  in- 
quest in  New  Mexico,  stating  that  the  jury  found  Flor- 
ence Willoughby  had  come  to  her  death  by  hands  of 
Nana,  his  band  of  Apaches,  and  various  other  persons 
unknown  ;  which  document  you  have  used  to  prove  the 
child  dead  in  the  courts  of  England,  as  attested  by  the 
oaths  and  affidavits  of  various  officials  of  the  English 
courts." 

"  You  can't  git  out  of  that  charge,  like  you  did  the 
former  !  "  cries  Mr.  Garvey.  "  The  very  affidavey  thar 
that  proves  that  you  didn't  commit  murder,  proves  that 
you  committed  forgery  ag'in  the  laws  of  New  Mexico, 
and  for  which  I'll  take  you  back  thar  sure  as  my  name's 
Brick  Garvey  ! — ah,  you  recollect  me  now,  Arthur  Wil- 
loughby ! " 

For  at  this  speech,  the  man  whom  he  has  addressed  has 
uttered  a  startled  moan  and  turned  very  pale,  and  is 
lifting  his  hand  in  an  excited  way,  and  looking  at  the 
clock  in  despairing  agony. 

Then  he  bursts  out,  pleading  as  for  life  itself :  "  My 
God  !  Everett,  let  me  go  now  I  I  can't  stay !  I  have 
given  the  girl  all  you  want !  She's  got  my  titles — my 
estates — my  wealth  !  Let  me  go  NOW  ! " 

And  the  scene  from  this  time  on  becomes  one  of  awful 
intensity,  made  hideous  by,  every  now  and  again,  little 
jeering  laughs  from  Gussie. 

"  Never  !  "  cries  Phil.  "  NEVER  !  I  might  have  spared 
you  for  your  crimes  against  this  child,  whose  death  I 
believe  you  planned  by  starvation  or  the  beasts  of  the 
wilderness,  but  I'll  never  forgive  you  your  lie  when  you 
came  to  me  outside  that  little  telegraph-office  in  Lords 


«86  HISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE. 

burgh,  and,  as  I  heard  the  click  of  the  instrument,  you 
gave  me  the  false  despatch  that  said  Nana  and  his  band 
had  crossed  the  Rio  Grande,  when  the  wires  were  cry- 
ing that  they  were  hurrying  to  the  valley  of  the  San 
Francisco,  and  so  sent  Agnes  Willoughby,  that  gentle 
lady,  to  her  death  by  the  hands  of  the  cruel  Apaches. 
Do  YOU  THINK  I'LL  FORGIVE  THAT  ?  There  are  some 
wretches  men  do  not  forgive  nor  women  pity."  And  he 
stands  glaring  at  the  man  who  now  grovels  before  him. 

But  at  this  moment  the  girl  is  in  front  of  him. 

"Did  he  do  that?"  she  cries.  "In  the  uncertainty 
and  gloom — the  lurid  remembrance  of  the  past,  I 
thought  he  had  merely  deserted  me,  a  little  child,  in 
the  wilderness — that's  all !  I  did  not  know  that  he  had 
sent  my  mother  and  me  to  my  dear  father  who  loved  us, 
to  chain  him  to  death.  I  remember  now  !  I  REMEMBER 
NOW  !  Rather  than  spare  you,  Arthur  Willoughby,  I 
would  give  up  all  my  titles — everything  this  day  has  given 
me — to  know  that  you  are  punished  for  your  crime 
against  my  dead  mother — my  dead  father,  that  I  remem- 
ber now  lying  among  the  melon  vines  and  the  smoke — 
crying  :  '  Pete,  save  the  baby  !  Save  the  baby,  Pete  !  ' 
And  putting  up  her  hands  to  her  face  in  her  horror  of  the 
wretch  she  is  looking  at,  and  who  now  fawns  upon  her 
and  calls  her  niece,  she  staggers  back  to  the  arms  of 
Follis.  who,  like  all  else  in  the  room,  is  scowling  at  this 
creature  who  had  given,  to  the  cruel  Apache,  innocent 
womanhood  and  helpless  childhood. 

"  You  need  not  fear,"  cries  Garvey,  "  though  I,  as 
sheriff,  arn  bound  to  protect  him  ;  if  you  come  to  Grant 
County  and  make  that  speech  to  the  boys,  they'll  give  you 
your  fill  of  justice  and  vengeance  too,  and  thar  won't  be 
no  need  of  jidge  or  jury  ; — though,  of  course,  I  will  have 
to  try  and  do  my  duty  and  protect  him." 

To  this  Avonmere  cries  :  "  I  know  what  you  mean  ! 
They'll  murder  me !  My  God  !  I  will  not  go  back." 
And,  springing  to  the  door,  half  opens  it  trying  to 
escape  ;  but  in  a  moment  the  policeman  and  the  deputy 
sheriff  are  upon  him,  and  he  is  manacled. 

THEN  HIS  PUNISHMENT  BEGINS  ! 

For  at  this  moment  there  is  a  rustle  of  women's  dresses 
in  the  hallway,  and  Tillie  Follis,  followed  by  her  mothe? 
and  Mrs.  Marvin,  stand  at  the  door, 


MISS   NOBOt)Y   OF   NOWHERE.  l8j 

The  girl  is  in  some  light  lavender-colored  bride's 
dress,  with  bridal  blushes  on  her  fair  cheeks,  and  eyes  that 
are  expectant  but  indignant. 

As  he  sees  her,  Avonmere  gives  a  low,  quick  moan, 
and,  starting  backward,  hides  his  manacles  behind  the 
table  ;  his  head  droops  with  the  agony  of  despairing 
shame,  and  silence  conies  over  the  room. 

But  Rachel,  her  eyes  only  on  him,  cries  suddenly : 
"  Avonmere,  we  waited  at  the  church  for  you — Tillie, 
the  minister,  and  I — until  we  thought  something  must 
have  happened.  Send  these  men  away,  and  come  right 
off.  There  is  just  time  for  the  wedding  now  !  " 

And,  striding  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  she  seizes 
Avonmere  by  the  arm. 

Then  she  starts  back  and  utters  an  astonished  cry ; 
she  has  seen  his  handcuffs.  But  now  she  gives  an 
affrighted  gasp,  for  Abe  Follis,  with  the  roar  of  a 
grizzly,  has  sprung  out  from  the  shadowed  corner  in 
which  he  has  been  supporting  Flossie,  and  has  seized  the 
bride  by  her  delicate  wrist  and  is  glaring  at  her  and 
whispering,  in  a  hoarse  voice  :  "  You,  my  darter,  dared 
to  marry  without  my  consent  and  blessing  ! " 

But  Rachel,  with  backwoods  grit,  is  between  them  and 
calls  out :  "  Abe,  it  was  my  fault — all  mine  !  " 

Then  he  cries,  in  awful  reproach  :  "  You,  the  wife  of 
my  heart,  were  going  to  marry  our  Tillie  to  that  scoundrel 
unknown  to  me,  her  daddy  and  your  husband?  The 
moral  murderer  of  a  man  and  woman !  The  attempted 
assassin  of  our  adopted  child,  that  he's  kept  out  of  her 
rights  and  glory  for  nine  years  !  This  bogus  lord  ! " 

"  Great  heavens !  Abe,  how  was  I  to  know  ?  "  stammers 
Rach,  with  eyes  that  for  the  first  time  can't  look  her 
husband  in  the  face.  "  Forgive  me.  I — I  thought  you 
were  out  of  your  head !  " 

Next  she  cries,  wildly :  "  Where's  the  critter  who  intro- 
duced this  villain  into  my  house,  and  would  have  palmed 
him  off  as  genuine  on  my  innocent  Tillie  ?  Whar's  that 
Marvin  woman  ?  "  And,  with  a  "  fighting  Injun  "  look,  she 
would  pursue  and  fall  upon  and  rend  to  pieces  the  matri- 
monial broker,  did  not  Mrs.  Marvin,  with  affrighted 
screams,  fly  from  the  room. 

And  now  a  more  horrid  scene  than  all  takci  place. 

The  two  sisters  are  fronting  each  other. 


588  MISS   NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE. 

"Forgive  me," cries  Flossie.  "I  could  not  let  yo\ 
marry — even  though  you  loved  him — this  villain  who  hai 
stolen  my  title." 

"  He  is  not  a  lord  ? "  gasps  Tillie. 

"  No  more  than  that  creature,  jeering  in  his  face 
was,"  and  she  points  to  Gussie,  late  Baron  Bassington. 

"  Not  a  lord  !  "  screams  the  girl ;  "  not  a  lord!    THEN 

WHY  SHOULD  I  WANT  TO  MARRY  HIM  ?  "     But,  as  she  Says 

this  thing,  shamed  and  dazed,  she  sinks  into  her  sister's 
arms,  her  bridal  robes  floating  about  and  partly  covering 
both. 

And,  looking  on  this  beauty  that  should  have  been  his 
this  day,  with  all  her  wealth  and  all  her  charms,  the  man 
once  called  Lord  Avonmere  begins  to  laugh  the  laugh 
of  despair,  and  cries  :  "  Take  her  away  !  Take  away  the 
bride  who  loves  me !  THE  TYPICAL  BRIDE  OF  THL 
INTERNATIONAL  WEDDING  !  "  And  jeers  them  with  cynic 
laugh,  then  screams,  "  Take  her  away— her  beauty  makes 
me  mad ! "  and  flies  at  Tillie  Follis  as  she  lies  before 
him,  in  all  her  loveliness  of  face  and  pose  and  figure, 
and  would  fondle  her  with  manacled  hands,  and  caress 
her  with  felon's  kisses. 

But  the  frontier  Rach  has  him  by  the  throat,  and  Gar- 
vey  and  the  policeman  are  upon  him. 

And  so  they  leave  him  to  law  and  to  justice. 

And  he  sits  with  bowed  head  and  rolling  eyes — the 
same  weird,  blood-shot  eyes  as  those  of  poor  Tom  Wil- 
loughby  when  he  saw  his  loved  wife  and  child  delivered 
to  the  cruel  death  of  Indian  massacre. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

BAPPY   COWBOY  f 

FROM  this  hideous  interview  they  all  would  go  away 
in  a  hurry ;  but  Mrs.  Marvin,  in  her  anxiety  to  escape 
from  the  stalwart  Rach,  has  taken  the  Follis  equipage 
and  driven  off  with  it,  so  the  family  are  compelled  to 
wait  in  Gussie's  parlor  for  another  carriage. 

Here  both  Grousemoor  and  the  lawyer  assure  Flossie 


MISS  NOBODY   OF   NOWHERE.  28* 

that  the  affidavit  so  deftly  drawn  by  Arthur  Willoughby 
together  with  the  evidence  at  their  hands,  will  give  her 
both  title  and  estates  ;  and  they  all  go  to  congratulating 
Lady  Avonmere. 

But  as  the  world  gives  her  honor,  the  girl  grows  curi- 
ously humble.  Her  manner  seems  to  say  :  "  My  battle 
with  society  is  over ;  I  am  on  guard  no  more." 

Most  of  her  attention  she  gives  to  Matilde,  as  if  by 
silent  caresses  to  beg  forgiveness  for  saving  her  from  a 
villain  ;  though  she  finds  time  to  even  beam  on  Mr.  Van 
Beekman  as  he  lisps :  "  Awh — delighted  to  have  restored 
you,  Lady  Avonmere.  to  identity  and  estates." 

But  when  Abe  and  Rach  talk  about  her  going  to  Eng- 
land and  living  with  dukes  and  potentates,  she  is  in  their 
arms,  crying  she  is  their  daughter,  and  will  do  what- 
ever they  tell  her,  to  show  them  how  much  she  loves 
them. 

But  now  Mr.  Gussie's  man  comes  in  and  announces 
that  he  has  carriages  at  the  door,  and  the  party  all  go 
hurriedly  down-stairs ;  except  Flossie,  who  lingers  and 
says  to  her  father  :  "Just one  word  to  Mr.  Everett  before 
I  leave." 

"  Oh,  about  that  scoundrel  in  there ! "  remarks  Abe, 
pointing  his  thumb  toward  Avonmere's  apartments : 
where  Phil  is  now  having  a  few  parting  words  with  Gar- 
vey  ;  for,  fearing  an  appeal  from  Willoughby  to  the  Eng- 
lish consul  that  may  delay  matters,  the  frontier  sheriff  is 
preparing  to  start  his  prisoner  for  the  West  at  once. 

So  coming  out  from  this  interview,  Everett  finds  a 
young  lady  who  says  to  him,  "  One  moment  1 "  and  waves 
him  with  a  somewhat  haughty  gesture  to  Mr.  Gussie's 
parlor,  from  which  all  the  others  have  gone  down  to  the 
street ;  then  whispers  with  trembling  lips,  anxious  man- 
ner, and  reproachful  eyes,  "  Why  do  you,  of  all,  to-day 
keep  from  me  ? "  next  gives  him  a  little  piteous  pout, 
and  affecting  lightness  says  :  "  You  have  not  even  con- 
gratulated me.  Why,  Mr.  Van  Beekman  was  kind  enough 
to  do  that,  and  to  insinuate  that  he  was  happy  to  have 
restored  me  my  memory  and  my  name." 

"  Did  he  dare  claim  that  ?  "  says  Phil,  savagely,  "  that 
which  has  been  my  work,  anxiety,  heart,  soul ! — ever  sine* 
I  gazed  in  your  eyes  and  knew  you  lived  and  had  be- 
come a  woman  ? " 


IQO  MISS   NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

"  And  you  were  working  to  give  me  a  name  Ar/ar* 
that  night  ? "  mutters  Flossie,  disappointment  on  her 
face. 

"What  night?" 

The — the  night  I  told  you  when  I  had  a  name  I'd 
answer — "  stammers  the  girl.  Then  looking  angry,  she 
cries  out:  "  Are  all  cowboys  as  stupid  as  you,  Mr.  Peter  ?  " 
and  is  going  away. 

But  the  cowboy  has  caught  her,  not  with  his  lariat, 
though  just  as  strongly,  and  is  whispering:  "You  have  a 
name  now  !  Is  this  your  answer  ?  You  expected  me  to 
speak  last  night ;  that's  why  you  were  haughty.  You 
darling — you " 

"  Be  careful !  "  cries  his  victim  in  blushing  laugh, 
"  Perhaps  I'm  a  ward  in  chancery,  besides  a  peeress  of 
England." 

"What  do  cowboys  care  for  chancery  or  titles — cow- 
boys who  love — "  says  Phil,  who  is  handling  the  possible 
ward  in  chancery  and  certain  peeress  just  as  if  she  were 
a  plain,  ordinary,  every-day  betrothed  kind  of  girl. 

"  I — I  see  they  don't ! "  murmurs  the  young  lady. 
Then  she  springs  away  with  a  startled  cry,  for  Abe  is 
gazing  upon  them  astonished,  and  remarking:  "  Hello, 
Pete,  what  are  you  doing  to  my  darter  ?  " 

"  Kissing  her,"  says  Phil. 

"  Yes ;  isn't  it  wonderful,  papa  ?  "cries  Flossie.  "  Phil, 
you  remember  what  I  said  to  you  that  awful  day  in  Ari- 
zona— '  Kiss  me,  dear  Mr.  Peter  ! ' — I — I've  loved  you 
ever  since  then — since  you  saved  my  life." 

"And  now  you're  going  to  marry  me?"  answers 
Everett. 

"Ask  papa,"  says  the  young  lady,  with  a  demure 
courtesy,  pointing  to  Mr.  Follis. 

After  about  two  questions,  Abe,  putting  Flossie's  hand 
into  Phil's,  remarks  :  "  Well,  blow  me  if  you  ain't  the 
darndest,  luckiest  cowboy  I  ever  heerd  on  ! " 

"Yes,  and  the  happiest,"  cries  Phil. 

Then  there  is  a  little  more  emotion,  and  Abe  takes 
Florence  down  to  the  carriage,  muttering  :  "  No  dukes 
or  princes  need  apply;  the  . Follis  peeress  is  already 
staked  out  and  located,"  and  other  allusions  his  wife 
thinks  insane  as  they  drive  up  the  avenue. 

As  for  Phil,  getting  to  the  Brevoort  in  a  state  of  bliss. 


MISS  NOBODY  OF   NOWHERE.  1<)l 

flee,  and  rapture,  be  finds  his  sister  waiting,  anxious  foe 
his  news. 

"  Success ! "  cries  Miss  Bessie  ;  "  I  see  it  in  your  (ace, 
I'm  going  up  this  afternoon  to  ask  Lady  Avonmere  to  be 
one  of  my  bridesmaids." 

"  Impossible  I  "  says  Phil,  "  she's  In  search  of  brides- 
maids herself ;  besides  I  can't  be  Grousemoor's  best  man." 

"  No  I    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean,"  remarks  Everett,  pompously, "  I'm  going  to 
get  married  on  the  same  day,  by  the  same  minister,  in 
the  same  church."  Then  he  suddenly  cries:  "Bessie, 
you  kiss  me  as  if  I  were  Grousemoor." 

"Ah,  speaking  of  me  ?"  remarks  that  nobleman,  who 
has  come  in  with  a  serious  face. 

"  Yes,"  cries  his  sweetheart,  and  tells  him  of  the  double 
wedding. 

"  Just  the  idea  I **  returns  her  fianc/.  "  Economical ! 
and  if  that  Atchison,  Topeka  and  Santa  Fl  keeps  going 
down ** 

"Oh,  don't  mix  up  finance  with  love,"  cries  Miss 
Bessie.  "  I'd  marry  you  if  you  hadn't  a  cent  for  your 
fortune,  or  a  title  to  your  name. — Our  marriages,  Phil, 
are  of  flesh  and  blood  and  heart  and  soul,  not  of  stocks 
and  bonds  and  securities  and  titles.  They  are  not  what 
is  now  called  INTERNATIONAL." 

Some  few  evenings  after  this,  Everett,  coming  from 
the  presence  of  his  betrothed,  with  whom  he  has  been 
arranging  a  few  hurried  bridal  details — for  the  wedding- 
bells  are  not  far  away  now — is  met  in  the  hall  by  Mr. 
Follis. 

"Hello,  Pete!*  he  remarks,  with  a  genial  grin,  Mhow 
do  I  look  now?** 

"  About  the  same  as  usual.** 

"  Well,  I'm  different.  You  are  gazing  at  a  man  who's 
boss  !  When  you  laid  out  that  so-called  Lord  Avonmere, 
you  made  me  a  happy  potentate  in  my  home.  That 
Marvin  widow  skipped  in  a  hurry — didn't  dare  face  my 
Rach  j  but,  bless  you,  a  papppose  could  down  my  wife 
now,  she's  so  humble — so's  Tillie.  They've  been  hold- 
ing ou£  the  olive-branch  to  sue  ever  since  they  nearly 
broke  my  hear:  by  deceiving  me.  But  yov  <aa  do  aae  * 
favor."  ' 

"Anything  in  my  power:'' 


29*  MISS  NOBODY   OF  NOWHERE. 

u  Then  ask  Bob  to  stand  up  with  you." 

44  Bob ! "  says  Phil,  in  surprise.  Then,  in  sudden  un 
derstanding,  he  goes  on  :  "  Oh,  Mr.  Jackson,  the  super- 
intendent of  the  Baby." 

"  Yes ;  Bob's  just  arrived  from  Colorado,"  continues 
Abe.  "  He  was  fighting  fire  in  the  mine  for  weeks,  and 
when  he  got  that  under  he  was  snowed  in  for  two  weeks 
more  and  couldn't  get  anywhere.  It  makes  a  man  power- 
ful huffy  and  cranky  to  be  snowed  up,  and  since  he's 
got  here  he  seems  all-fired  put  out  and  riled  up  about 
something.  You  know  Tillie's  to  be  Flossie's  brides- 
maid, and  I  thought  if  you  asked  Bob  to  stand  up  with 
you — it  might  kinder  make  things  easier  for  my  Tillie. 
Kinder — don't  you  see  ?  "  Abe  finishes  up  nervously  with 
a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  I  see  ;  and  I  shall  do  as  you  ask  with  pleasure. 
Bob  Jackson  has  Flossie's  confidence  and  love  and  must 
be  a  noble  fellow,"  returns  Everett. 

"Then  I'll  make  you  two  acquainted,"  says  Follis. 
And  going  into  the  dining-room,  where  they  meet  Bob 
Jackson,  the  young  men  soon  get  to  be  very  good 
friends. 

A  few  moments  after,  Abe  leaves  them  together,  and 
Phil  making  his  request,  is  answered  in  the  affirmative. 
But  before  they  rise,  Bob  gives  Everett  some  information 
that  astonishes  him.  He  says  :  "  I  know  pretty  well  what 
has  happened  in  this  house  in  the  last  few  months.  That 
— that  scoundrel,  who  nearly  ruined  both  you  and  " — he 
checks  himself  suddenly  and  goes  on — "  that  scoundrel 
will  never  trouble  your  sweetheart  again  I " 

"Arthur  Willoughby  ?"  cries  Phil. 

"Is  dead  I"  answers  Jackson.  "Killed  trying  to 
escape ! " 

"Shot?" 

"  No ;  run  over  by  a  railroad  train  at  a  little  station  in 
Kansas.  As  he  got  nearer  the  West  his  fears  increased, 
and  he  took  a  desperate  chance  to  get  away,  and  lost  it. 
I  haven't  said  anything  to  the  family  here  about  it.  The 
newspapers  will  tell  them  to-morrow." 

As  Phil  is  going  out  from  this  interview,  Miss  Tillie 
meets  him  in  the  hall  ;  she  is  walking  about  with  her 
father.  "  My  poor  crushed  rose,"  murmurs  Abe,  patting 
her  pretty  cheek 


MISS   NOBODV   OF    NOWHERE.  »9J 

"Poor  crushed  rose  !"  laughs  Matilde,  whose  vivacity 
seems  to  have  come  back  to  her  about  the  time  of  Bob's 
arrival.  "  You  should  have  seen  the  poor  crushed  rose 
to-day  at  Mrs.  Rivington's.  The  poor  crushed  rose 
crushed  her  sister  Lady  Avonmere  into  New  York  so- 
ciety. She  just  walked  all  over  them  with  Baroness 
Avonmere  in  the  peerage  of  England.  Yes,  and  you 
should  have  seen  that  Marvin  woman  fly  from  me.  That 
old  lady  is  just  now  the  most  unhappy  marriage  broker- 
ess  in  New  York.  She  was  going  to  get  a  commission 
for  me  from  Avonmere — ten  per  cent,  of  my  marriage 
settlement.  She  ran  away  from  the  house  so  fast  she 
left  the  document  behind  her."  With  this  she  exhibits 
Willoughby's  letter  to  the  wondering  eyes  of  her  father 
and  Everett. 

As  to  Mrs.  Marvin's  misery  Matilde  is  right  r  the 
widow's  punishment  is  almost  greater  than  she  can  bear. 
She  cannot  kiss  the  beautiful  Lady  Avonmere,  who  has 
become  the  very  sun  of  New  York  society,  when  she 
meets  her  at  fete  or  revel. 

Once,  overcome  by  longing  and  desire,  Aurora  ap- 
proaches the  peeress  and  diffidently  opens  her  fat  arms, 
and  in  one  second  supreme  bliss  will  be  hers  ;  when  of 
a  sudden  so  contemptuous  a  stare  is  launched  upon  her  that 
she  recoils  from  Flossie's  haughty  gaze,  and  creeps  away, 
murmuring  sadly  :  "  Misunderstood  !  Misunderstood  !  " 

But  Lady  Avonmere  and  her  family  soon  leave  New 
York  for  Boston.  The  bells  of  Trinity  ring  out  their 
wedding  chimes.  And,  gazinr  on  the  pretty  ceremony 
through  his  eyeglass,  Mr.  Van  Beekman,  arrayed  in  pur- 
ple and  fine  linen,  sighingly  remarks  :  "  Poor  gals  !  If 
they  had  waited  !  They  didn't  know  I'd  beat  old  Van 
Twiler  by  about — five  minutes  !  " 

This  remark  applies  to  his  venerable  cousin,  who,  in 
almost  the  act  of  changing  his  will,  had  suddenly  ex- 
pired, and  the  unaltered  document  made  during  the 
brief  period  of  Gussie's  lordship  had  left  to  "  his  beloved 
cousin  Augustus  Van  Beekman,  commonly  known  as 
Lord  Bassington,"  enough  of  this  world's  goods  to  permit 
him  to  be  a  club  man  fore(ver. 

A  destiny  he  will  probably  fulfil,  and  become  in  time 
one  of  the  venerables  of  the  Stuyvesant.  And  some  two 
or  three  decades  from  now,  when  our  clubs  have  gone  up 


194  MISS    NOBODY    OF    NOWHERE. 

beyond  Central  Park,  or  to  the  west  side,  or  wherevef 
else  fashionable  New  York  moves  to,  he  will  sit  look- 
ing out  at  the  maidens  tripping  the  Boulevard  as  his  pre- 
decessors do  now  at  those  on  the  avenue,  and  say, 
altered  to  the  style  of  the  coming  epoch  :  "  By  Jove  !  New 
York  is  not  what  it  used  to  be  in  the  days  of  dear  old 
Fifth  Avenue,  when  I  downed  that  English  adventurer — 
that  Willoughby,  who  tried  to  foist  himself  on  our  set 
as  a.  lord  ;  when  I  made  the  beautiful  Miss  Nobody  of 
Nowhere  what  she  is.  I'm  going  to  Lady  Avonmere's 
ball  to-night ;  she's  got  a  daughter  now,  don't  yer  know, 
dear  boys." 

And  irreverent  youth  of  the  twentieth  century  wilJ 
sneer  in  the  slang  of  their  day  :  "  That  old  chump  Van 
Beekman's  got  at  his  Miss  Nobody  of  Nowhere  story 
again." 


The  SPY  COMPANY 

A     Tale    of    The    Mexican     War 
By  ARCHIBALD    CLAVERING    GUNTER 


"A  stirring  tale  of  lore  and  fighting,  quite  in  Mr.  Grater's  old-time 
manner." — New  Tork  American,  January  31,  1903. 

"A  worthy  successor  to  « Mr.  Barnes  of  New  York,*  and  «  Mr.  Potter 
of  Texas." — The  North  Amtrican,  Phila.,  Pa.,  February  15,  1903. 

"A  tale  of  stirring  Incident*  and  ingenious  plot  ....  A  novel  in 
which  there  is  n<x  one  dull  moment." — Tbi  Littrary  Nnot,"  New  York, 
March,  1903. 

41  No^chapter  in  the  history  of  thae  United  State*  is  more  plctnrewjue  and 
romantic  than  that  which  relate*  to  the  acquisition  of  Texas.  In  the  'forties,* 
when  Texas  was  in  a  transition  state,  held  by  Mexico,  claiming  to  be  an  inde- 
pendent nation  and  drifting  into  the  possession  of  the  United  States,  all  at  the 
same  time,  the  local  situation  was  as  complicated  as  the  most  imaginative  novel- 
ist could  desire,  and  this  invoked  state  of  affairs  was  cleared  up  by  the  Mexican 
War,  just  in  the  right  way  to  afford  a  strong  climax.  Full  advantage  of  these 
attractive  elements  has  been  taken  by  Archibald  Clavering  Ounter,  author  of 
•  Mr.  Barnes  of  New  York,'  in  his  latest  work,  '  The  Spy  Company." 

— Evening  Telegrafk,  Philadelphia,  January  31,  1903. 


Very  handsomely  illustrated.     Frontispiece  in  colors 
Cloth,  $1.50  Paper,  50  Cents 

At  all  booksellers  or  sent  prepaid  on  receipt  of  price   ky 

Hurst  and  Company, 

PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


A  Lost  American 

AH  EXCITING  TALE  OF  CUBA 

BY 

ARCHIBALD  CLAVERING  GUNTER 


AUTHOR    OF 


"  Mr.  Barnes  of  New  York, "  "  The  King's  Stock- 
broker," etc.,  etc. 

"  The  plot  of  Mr.  Gunter's  latest  novel  is  laid 
in  Cuba,  during  the  ten  years'  war.  The 
scenes  and  incidents  of  the  story  gives  ad- 
ditional interest  in  view  of  the  late  conflict,  and 
much  capital  is  made  out  of  our  instinctive 
horror  of  Spanish  methods  of  warfare.  The 
hero  of  the  story  is  an  American,  imprisoned 
without  trial,  in  a  Cuban  dungeon  and  sentenced 
to  be  shot.  .  .  .  Once  started  we  find  no 
breathing  space  until  Howard  has  happily 
married  his  lady  love." — The  Amhersi  Literary 
Monthly. 

Cloth,  $1.50  Paper,  50  Cents 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  prepaid,  on 
of  price,  by 

Hurst  and  Company, 

PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


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